"He's rich, you said, and Lady Scarcliff approved of him."

"That is so," she answered thoughtfully. "But the mater is ignorant of it all. Ah! if I only dare tell you. It would astound and stagger you."

"He is in search of you, that's very clear," I said, hoping to induce her to tell me something further.

"But he must not find me," she declared. "The day he discovers me I shall take my life," she added in a hard, desperate voice.

"Why? Do you fear him?"

She made no answer, but her chin sank upon her breast.

"Then tell me the truth, Tibbie," I said. "He tried to compel you to marry him because he held some secret of yours that you do not wish to be known. Am I not right?"

She nodded in the affirmative, and I saw that tears were in her fine eyes.

What was the secret, I wondered? Was it the existence of that low-born lover, a photograph of whom he had carried in his bag? Did he hold over her a threat of exposure because he had become seized by a desire that she should be his wife? Many a woman has been forced into an odious marriage in order to preserve her secret.

I looked into her pale haggard face and wondered. How beautiful she was in her terror and distress. She was in fear of that man, whose life was, when viewed in the plain light of day, somewhat mysterious. But what did she fear? Who was the man who had fallen by her hand?

We had arranged that Mrs Williams should cook for us, and presently she came smilingly to lay the table, simply, but cleanly. Thus, our conversation was interrupted, but when alone again I returned to the subject, and she said, with a serious look,--

"Wilfrid, he must not discover me. If he does--if he does, then all is at an end. Even you cannot save me."

"But I fear I may be followed here," I said. "He knew that we met last night, or he would not have been aware that you slept at Harker's. He, or someone employed by him, is watching me. I must remain away from you."

"Yes," she remarked. "I quite foresee the danger, yet I shall be very lonely. And besides, what can I say to Mrs Williams?"

"We'll have to make an excuse that I've been sent into the country to work," I said. "If I come daily here I'm quite certain Winsloe will discover you. This knowledge of his regarding our meeting the day before yesterday makes me suspicious."

"You are right," she declared sadly. "He has means of knowing everything. No secret seems safe from that man, Wilfrid. I sometimes think--sometimes I think that--" and she hesitated.

"That what?"

But she did not reply. She was standing at the window gazing fixedly down into the grey, dismal street. The words she had uttered mechanically, just as though she were speaking to herself.

"You told me, Tibbie, that if I pretended to be your husband that I might save you," I remarked presently.

"And so you may, providing Ellice Winsloe does not discover me. If he does--then all is useless--quite useless. I shall have compromised myself and placed you in an invidious position, all to no purpose."

"But by discretion--by my remaining away from you, and only coming here by stealth when I know that Winsloe is not watchful, I may still remain your husband in the eyes of these people."

"Yes, yes, Wilfrid," she said eagerly, placing her nervous hand upon my shoulder and looking deeply into my eyes. "That is the only way. I must live here alone--in hiding. They must not find me. Let us have patience--patience always--and we may foil that man's evil intentions.

Ah! If you knew everything you would pity me. But you do not. You believe that I hold some guilty secret. Yes," she added hoa.r.s.ely, "it is a guilty secret, and how can I sufficiently thank you for trusting me as blindly as you do? I am very unworthy. You are the best friend, Wilfrid, that woman ever had. Can you wonder at the suggestion I made to you in the Long Gallery the other day?" Then she hesitated, still looking me straight in the face. "But you have forgiven me," she went on with a sigh. "I thought that you loved me still--yes--I was very foolish. All women are so sometimes--all women who are terrified and unhappy, as I am!"

And the tears again stood in her eyes as she bowed her beautiful head before me.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN THE HOUSE OF THE PARHAMS.

That evening, when I returned to Bolton Street, I found Eric awaiting me.

Unseen, he had followed Winsloe to various places during the afternoon, but his movements were in no way suspicious. At Harker's Hotel he had, it appeared, lost all trace of Sybil, and had probably employed a private detective to watch my movements.

The adjourned inquest had been held at Midhurst, for in the _Globe_ there appeared a four-line paragraph saying that in the case of an unknown man found shot in Charlton Wood, a verdict of wilful murder had been returned, and the matter had been left in the hands of the police.

A village tragedy attracts but little notice in London, and all the papers dismissed it in a paragraph of practically the same wording.

That night we dined with two friends at the Trocadero, and next morning I set forth again upon my inquiries, leaving Eric to act as he thought best. My only promise to him was not to go near my pseudo wife.

My first visit was to the p.a.w.nbroker's in the Fulham Road, to whom I presented the vouchers I had found upon the dead man, and received on redeeming them a cheap silver Geneva watch and heavy antique gold ring, in which a single ruby was set.

"You don't recollect the gentleman who pledged these, I suppose?" I asked of the a.s.sistant.

The young man, a smart, shrewd fellow, reflected a moment, and answered,--

"Well, yes, I do remember something of him. We had an argument about the ring. He wanted five pounds on it, and I wouldn't give it."

"What kind of fellow was he?" I asked, explaining that I had bought the tickets from a third person.

"Oh, youngish--with a short brown beard. Evidently a gentleman who was hard up. We get lots of them in here."

A brown beard! Had he shaved and disguised himself before his interview with Tibbie?

"Tall?" I asked.

"No. Not very."

The description did not answer to that of the dead unknown.

"A stranger?"

"Quite. I'd never seen him before. But the truth is I recollect him because that ruby there is a valuable one. I had my doubts at the moment as to its genuineness, and as there were a lot of people waiting I had no time to examine it. So I lent him only a couple o' quid on it."

"Then it's worth more?"

"Yes. If you bought the ticket cheap you've got a bargain. The guv'nor here would give you eighty quid for it, and be pleased."

I looked at it, and saw that it was a very fine stone. To me it seemed evident that the man who had p.a.w.ned the watch and ring was not the man who had lost his life in Charlton Wood.

"You think he was a gentleman?"

"Well, he spoke like one, and seemed very much afraid of being seen. He hesitated when I asked him his name, so I wrote down the usual one-- Green."

"And the address?"

"I put that in also."

So finding I could discover nothing further, I carried away both watch and ring to add to the strange collection of objects which the dead man's pockets had contained.