"Well--only--only that I wish you were my real husband," she answered frankly. "If you were, then I should fear nothing. But it cannot be--I know that."

"What do you fear, Tibbie?" I asked, very seriously. "Tell me--do tell me."

"I--I can't--I can't now," was her nervous response in a harder voice, turning her gaze away from mine. "If I did, you would withdraw your help--you would not dare to risk your own reputation and mine, as you are now doing, just because we are old boy-and-girl friends."

On we went through the streaming downpour along Chancery Lane and the Strand, the driver lowering the window, for the rain and mud were beating into our faces.

"Well," I said, "and what do you suggest doing?"

"To-night I must disappear. I shall sleep in some obscure hotel across the water, and to-morrow you must call for me, and we'll go together to fix upon our future `home.'" Then she inquired eagerly what impression her absence had produced at Ryhall, and I told her.

For a time she remained serious and thoughtful. Her countenance had changed.

"Then Mason came back, as I ordered her?"

"Yes," I answered, "but won't she miss those things of hers you are now wearing?"

"No. Because they were in a trunk that she had packed ready to send up to town. She won't discover they've gone for some weeks, I feel sure."

She described her night run from Chichester to Bournemouth, how she had escaped from Mason, taken train direct up to Birmingham, remained that night at the Grand, then went on to Leicester, where she had spent a day, arriving in London that evening at seven o'clock. In Bull Street, Birmingham, she had been recognised by a friend, the wife of an alderman, and had some difficulty in explaining why she was there alone.

Our present position was not without its embarra.s.sments. I looked at the pretty woman who was about to pose as my wife, and asked,--

"And what name shall we adopt? Have you thought of one?"

"No. Let's see," she said. "How about Morton--Mr and Mrs William Morton?"

"All right, then after to-morrow I shall be known as William Morton, compositor?"

"And I shall be your very loving and devoted wife," she laughed, her eyes dancing. "In any case, life in Camberwell will be an entirely new experience."

"Yes," I said. "I only hope we sha'n't be discovered. I must be careful--for I shall be compelled to lead a double life. I may be followed one day."

"Yes, but it is for my sake, Wilfrid," she exclaimed, placing her small trembling hand upon my arm. "Remember that by doing this you are saving my life. Had it not been for you I should have been dead three days ago. My life is entirely in your hands. I am in deadly peril," she added, in a low, desperate whisper. "You have promised to save me--and you will, Wilfrid--I know you will!"

And she gripped my arm tightly, and looked into my face.

Notwithstanding her a.s.sumed gaiety of manner, she was in terror.

Was that dead, white face still haunting her--the face of the stranger who had, in secret, fallen by her hand?

CHAPTER TEN.

EXPLAINS CERTAIN IMPORTANT FACTS.

That night she remained at a small quiet hotel near Waterloo Station, a place patronised by third-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers from the West of England, and at ten o'clock next morning I called for her.

To disguise oneself as a working-man is no easy matter. I had experienced one difficulty which I had not foreseen, namely, how to allay the suspicions of my man, Budd, when he found me going out in the cheap clothes and hat I had purchased at an outfitter's in the Lambeth Road on the previous night.

On getting up I dressed myself in them, and then examined myself in the gla.s.s. I cut a figure that was, in my eyes, ridiculous. The suit bore a stiff air and odour of newness that was tantalising, yet I saw no way of altering it, save by pressing out the creases, and with that object I called Budd, who first looked me up and down, and then regarded me as though I had taken leave of my senses.

"Is that a new suit, sir?" he asked, scrutinising it.

"Yes, Budd," I replied. "Now, you see what it is. I want to appear like a working-man," I added confidentially. "The truth is I'm watching somebody, though, of course, you'll say nothing."

"Of course not, sir," he answered discreetly, for he was a reliable servant.

Then I took counsel with him how to take off the palpable newness of the clothes, and he, like the clever valet he was, took them out, and after a while returned with them greatly improved.

So when dressed in a cheap cotton shirt, a dark red tie, a suit of dark grey tweed, and a drab cap, I at last looked the typical working-man from South London wearing his best clothes.

With Budd's ready a.s.sistance I slipped out of my chambers into Bolton Street, and half an hour later arrived by omnibus at the obscure hotel where Tibbie awaited me.

When she saw me she smiled merrily; and when we were alone together in the Waterloo Bridge Road she burst out laughing, saying,--

"What an interesting pair we really do make. Your get-up is delightful, Wilfrid. You look a real compositor. But just put your cap a little on one side--it's more graceful. What does Budd say?"

"He first thought I'd taken leave of my senses; but I've allayed all his suspicions."

And so we went jauntily on along the wide road to the Obelisk and then up the London Road, where the costermongers' barrows were ranged and hoa.r.s.e-voiced men were crying their cheap wares to thrifty housewives.

All was strange to her. She knew nothing of working London, and viewed everything with keen interest. I could not help smiling at her demure little figure in the cheap black dress.

At the bottom of the London Road we entered a tram and went as far as Camberwell Gate, the neighbourhood where she had decided to establish herself as Mrs William Morton.

Leaving the main road we turned down a long, dreary street of uniform smoke-blackened houses with deep areas in search of a card showing "apartments to let furnished," and at last discovering one, we ascended the steps with considerable trepidation and knocked.

"You talk to them," I whispered. "You want three rooms furnished," and next second the door opened and we were face to face with a big, red-faced woman whose bloated countenance was certainly due to the undue consumption of alcohol--probably that spirit so dear to the lower cla.s.s feminine palate--Old Tom.

Sybil explained that we were in search of apartments, and we were conducted up to the second floor and shown three dirty, badly-furnished rooms, the very sight of which was depressing.

Tibbie's gaze met mine, and then she inquired the price.

"Of course, you'd want the use of the kitchen. That's downstairs,"

replied the woman.

"Oh! there's no kitchen, I see," Tibbie remarked quickly, seizing that defect as a means of escape from the miserable place. "I'm afraid then they won't suit us. My husband is always so very particular about having the kitchen on the same floor."

And then with many regrets we withdrew, and found ourselves once more out upon the pavement.

House after house we visited, some very poor but clean, others dirty, neglected and malodorous. Surely there are no more dismal dwelling-places in England than furnished lodgings in South London.

Through the Boyson and Albany Roads, through Villa Street and Faraday Street we searched, but discovered no place where Tibbie could possibly live. Tousled-haired women were mostly the landladies, evil-faced scowling creatures who drank gin, and talked with that nasal tw.a.n.g so essentially the dialect of once-rural Camberwell.

At last in Neate Street, a quiet thoroughfare lying between the Camberwell and Old Kent Roads, we saw a card in the parlour window of a small house lying back from the street behind a strip of smoke-dried garden. On inquiry the landlady, a clean, hard-working, middle-aged woman, took us upstairs, and there we found three cheaply-furnished rooms with tiny kitchen all bearing the hall-mark of the hire system.

The woman, who seemed a respectable person, told us that she had been a parlour-maid in the employ of a lady at Kensington, and her husband was foreman in a mineral-water factory in the neighbourhood.

Tibbie was struck with the woman's homely manner. She was from Devonshire, and the way she spoke of her own village showed her to be a true lover of the country.