"Then tell me quickly," she cried excitedly; "tell me, is it true what the papers say, that the police are trying to arrest him, and that he has fled abroad?"

She had read in the papers what I had feared to tell her, lest her mind should again become unhinged.

"Yes, Dora," I said sympathetically. "I am afraid it is true."

She knit her brows, and her nervous fingers. .h.i.tched themselves in the lace tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of her dress.

"They would arrest him for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I understand," she said. "The police think that Jack shot him."

"They have, unfortunately, evidence in support of their theory, I believe."

"Do you suspect him?" she asked, looking seriously into my eyes.

"I am his friend, Dora. I cannot give an impartial opinion."

"Ah! I understand; you, like the others, think he is guilty," she said in a tone of bitter reproach. "Some enemy has denounced him and set the bloodhounds of the law upon him. They will follow the scent, and soon discover him. But is he guilty?"

"I can only tell you one fact, Dora, much as I regret it," I answered.

"The detective who has the case in hand, one of the most renowned experts in his profession, holds evidence against him of a most conclusive character."

"In what way? What is the nature of the evidence?" she demanded.

"There is a witness," I replied slowly. "A person discovered Gilbert lying dead in Jack's chambers immediately after the crime. On the following night the same person visited the place secretly, and there met Jack, who was apparently engaged in getting rid of all traces of the murder. This witness desired to enter one of the rooms, but Jack locked the door in his face. In that room it will be proved the body of the murdered man was still lying."

"It will not be so easy to prove that last fact as you imagine," she said very seriously.

"Then Jack has already told you the truth!" I exclaimed.

"He told me something before--before I fell ill," she answered.

It was on my lips to ask her for an explanation of the cause that led to her brain trouble, but, remembering the strict injunctions of the great specialist, I deferred my question.

"Then you believe he is innocent?" I asked eagerly. "The police may bring forward an array of whatever witnesses they choose, but I will show them that Jack is no murderer," she said firmly. "I do not wonder that you, in common with others, suspect him, but when the truth is made clear you will be amazed at the villainy that has been resorted to by those responsible for Sternroyd's death."

"Do you, then, allege that there was more than one person?"

"That point will be made clear at the trial," she answered briefly.

"But tell me, you know something of Jack's movements. When do you antic.i.p.ate he will be arrested?"

"To-night most probably," I said. "Perhaps he is already detained."

"He is at some little out of-the-world place in Germany, isn't he?"

"Yes; how did you ascertain that?"

"I had a letter from him to-day," she replied; "but we have no time to lose. Ah!" And she stood with both hands suddenly pressed to her brow.

"My head throbs so painfully now and then. Sometimes it seems as if my forehead must really burst."

"Can I a.s.sist you?" I asked, rising quickly and standing beside her, but as I did so the door opened and the Earl of Fyneshade was announced.

"Ah! my dear Dora," he cried effusively, as he strode into the room. "I only returned from Paris this morning, and hearing you were unwell came along to inquire. The account I had of you was that you were delirious, with all sorts of other complications, but I'm glad you are not so ill as reported."

"Thanks very much," she said, shaking his hand. "I'm very much better to-day."

Then I exchanged greetings with the Earl. He looked spruce and well, and by his casual question whether Mabel had been there often during his absence, no one would have suspected him of any serious disagreement with his young wife. For a quarter of an hour we chatted, when, finding Lady Stretton was out driving, he rose and left.

"I'm so thankful he's gone," Dora exclaimed with a grimace, as soon as the door had closed. "He's such a dreadful old bore. I wonder Mabel ever fell in love with him; but there, ill-disposed persons say she didn't."

And we both laughed.

"But we haven't any time to gossip," she exclaimed, rising with a sudden impetuosity. "You will go with me, won't you?"

"Where?"

"Not far. I want to convince you that what I have said regarding Jack's innocence is the absolute truth."

"I am, of course, open to conviction," I said eagerly. "If I could only see him cleared of this terrible suspicion I should be happy."

"Then you shall," she said, laying her hand tenderly on my arm, and adding with earnestness, "Stuart, you told me on one occasion that you had loved a true, honest woman, and that your life had been blighted by her death."

"Yes," I said, "I remember I spoke to you once of her."

"Have you ceased to remember her?" she asked mysteriously.

"Never. Daily, hourly she is in my thoughts. There has, alas! been no brightness in my life since the well-remembered day when I lost her," I exclaimed fervently.

"If what I hear be true, she puzzles you. You knew nothing of her parentage, of her past, of the reason for the strange ceremony of your marriage," she said in a soft voice.

"Nothing. I have ever since sought to penetrate the mystery and ignominiously failed in every effort."

She paused and, looking steadfastly into my face, exclaimed in a strange voice full of suppressed excitement: "Then to-night I will take you to a place where you may ascertain the truth. At all hazards I will save Jack the indignity of falling into the hands of the police, and at the same time reveal to you certain facts that will astound you."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

RECONCILIATION.

Of her French maid, who appeared in answer to her summons, Dora ordered her hat and coat, but ere these could be brought she again placed her hands convulsively to her brow and, pacing the room in feverish haste, complained of the recurrence of excruciating pains.

Not knowing how to relieve her I stood watching, fearing lest she should be seized with another attack of mental aberration. She pushed her hair back from her brow, and suddenly halting before me, said:

"It is as I feared. My head is reeling and I cannot think. My mind is growing as confused as it was the other day. I--I cannot imagine what ails me."

"Shall I send for Dr Fothergill?" I suggested anxiously. She had promised to make a revelation, and I foresaw the possibility that if her mind became unhinged I should learn nothing.

"No," she answered, wearily sinking into a chair. "Forgive me. I am afraid I miscalculated my strength. I thought I had quite recovered, but the slight exertion of trying to recall the past brings back those fearful pains that have of late so tortured me. The blow must have injured my brain."

"The blow! What blow?" I cried.