Guilty Bonds

“I don’t see what money has to do with it,” I said. “Many poor men are happy with good helpmates.”

“Oh! don’t you,” exclaimed Rivers. “My idea is that marriage without money is suicide under an euphonious name.”

“Opinions differ on that point,” remarked Demetrius. “If I married a woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money. But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I’ve left my cigar-case in my overcoat,” and rising, he left the table.

“Ah, cigars?” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve some somewhere,” and feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and papers with it.

I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the table-cloth.

It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.

I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it up, exclaiming, —

“Hulloa! carrying Vera’s photo about like a love-sick swain, eh? By Jove?” he ejaculated when he had glanced at it. “Ah! – I’ve caught you, have I? Why, this isn’t Vera, but some other woman! I’m surprised at you,” and he feigned the utmost indignation.

“Let’s look!” demanded Rivers, taking it from Bob’s hand, as I vainly endeavoured to regain possession of it.

“Ah – Heavens?” exclaimed Ted with a repugnant gesture, when his eyes fell upon it.

“What! you know her, then?” asked Bob.

“No – er – no, my dear fellow,” replied the other hurriedly, with a curious smile. “Never saw her in my life. The likeness is very like some one – some one I once knew,” he added hastily, as he scrutinised it carefully, looking upon the back at the name of the photographer. “But I see I – I’m mistaken, it isn’t she.”

And he returned the picture to me.

“Who’s the lady?” inquired Bob. “Pretty woman, without a doubt.”

“Ask no questions,” I replied, smiling mysteriously. “A purely private matter.”

“Hum! – those private matters are entertaining, sometimes,” remarked Ted, as he and Bob laughed at my confusion; but as Demetrius returned just at that moment, the subject dropped.

We went to the smoking-room and sat chatting over coffee and liqueurs, but I noticed a marked difference in the manner of Rivers. He was no longer gay, but gloomy and taciturn, and more than once I caught him regarding me with an evil, angry glitter in his dark eyes, and a scowl upon his features. The others noticed it also, but made no remark.

When the clock chimed ten Ted rose, and addressing Nugent, said: “You must excuse me, old fellow, but I’ve an engagement which I must keep. Sorry to have to leave you so early, but it’s a matter of rather urgent business.”

“Oh, no. Stay another hour; the evening’s young yet,” urged Demetrius.

“Very sorry; but I cannot.”

“Put off your engagement till to-morrow,” I suggested, but he made no reply, affecting not to have heard me.

“Well, if you must go, au revoir,” Bob said, offering his hand. “I’m here every evening, so I hope you’ll often drop in, now you have returned to civilisation.”

“Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be re-elected a member.”

He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.

Without wishing me good-night, he departed.

An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?

Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?

Was he the murderer of the dead man’s wife, the unfortunate Nell, who was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from Russia?

Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my room until the small hours, then – heartily sick of it all – I sought repose.

Chapter Twenty Four

Doubts and Fears

“You seemed so out of sorts last night, Frank, old chap, that I thought I’d just drop in and see whether you could be cheered up a bit.”

“You’re very kind, Bob,” I said, cracking a matutinal egg, for I was breakfasting; “I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than being out of sorts just now.”

Bob laid his hand kindly upon my shoulder, exclaiming earnestly, —

“That’s exactly what I expected. You and I used to be old chums – now, is it so private that you can’t confide in me, and let me see what I can do, if anything?”

“The fact is I’m just desperate, and don’t know which way to turn for the best,” was my answer, with a savage curse to myself.

“Look here, Frank, remember that I am speaking seriously. In the old days we had many a ‘spree’ together – to use a colloquialism – and perhaps our actions, judged from a high standard of morality, were not all they might have been. You know very well that I’ve never pretended to be a saint, and that I never preach because I can’t be such a confounded hypocrite as to rail at others for being as foolish as myself – and – and you’ll believe, I hope, that I’m sincere in saying this – that you are doing yourself an injustice, and Vera also, if there’s any truth in what we teased you about last night.”

Never had I seen Bob so much in earnest before, and certainly he had never made such a speech in this life. Dear old Bob, he was a right good fellow at heart, after all!

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, although there was an uneasy consciousness that I was to blame.

“Why, to speak plainly, if you have married Vera, and love her, you should not carry another woman’s photograph. You should not leave your wife at Elveham. You know what I mean, well enough.”

A light dawned upon me. Bob thought the picture was that of some courtesan!

“Confound it all, old fellow, you jump to conclusions too readily,” I replied, with justifiable warmth.

“Well, what does it mean, then?” he asked, adding, “I don’t wish to pry into your secrets, but you’ll excuse me endeavouring, even just a little, to pull you up when you seem off the straight line. I should thank any one for doing so for me, if they meant it honestly.”

“I’m sure you would, Bob. This, I may tell you, is simply a little tiff which Vera and I have had, owing – oh, well, perhaps that’s sufficient.”

“I see. You don’t care to confide in me, therefore as I’ve business waiting for me, I’ll wish you good-bye,” he said, rather sadly, rising and extending his hand.

“Sit down, Bob, and don’t make a fool of yourself. How can I explain to you what I don’t myself understand? Answer me that, my Christian moraliser.”

“Then it has to do with her secret, eh? Have you never fathomed that yet?” he asked, eagerly, sinking into his chair again.

“What the devil do you know of her secret?” I demanded, in intense surprise. “How did you know there was one in connection with her?”

“Partly from my own observation, and partly from what I picked up after you left Genoa so suddenly. At that time I did not know you were going to marry her, or possibly I should not have been so inquisitive,” he replied rather disinterestedly.

“Then perhaps you can solve some of these mysteries that have puzzled me so long? Come, tell me everything about it, Bob, and you’ll do me an inestimable service. However it may be viewed, I strive to convince myself that Vera is not to blame. Don’t keep me in suspense – tell me at once, is that so?”

Here was the grand chance come at last. Now I should hear that for which my ears had been on the alert all these weary months.

Bob regarded me with a stare of curiosity, mingled with suspicion, and maintained silence for a few moments. Then he said, incredulously, —

“Is it possible there is anything unknown to you, save what we used to discuss when we first met your wife?”

“I’m absolutely ignorant of all save the fact that, with an infatuation for which I cannot account, I loved Vera and married her. I love her still, in spite of – Oh, I cannot go further! For Heaven’s sake tell me all you know now, at once, or I shall not retain my senses?”

Bob’s face was a study for a time. It apparently struck him that I was playing a part and wished to learn the depth of his knowledge regarding my wife. After a short pause, however, he continued, and imparted to me the first facts I had ever learned on this mysteriously-guarded point.

“Well, you see, after you left Genoa business compelled me to return. I was thrown on my own resources for a day or two, and during that period I made it a point to keep my ears open so as to catch anything I could regarding the mysterious fair one who had so interested us. Having a friend with me who was known at the police bureau it needed not a great deal of ingenuity to ascertain a few particulars. The first thing that came to light was the fact that old Hertzen, the grumbling uncle, was living under an assumed name.”

“Vera’s uncle! Was he – is he – not her uncle?” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes; he’s her uncle, I believe,” replied my friend, placidly. “It was not surprising that he was – and is – assuming another patronymic, because, being a Russian exile – ”

“An exile!”

“My dear fellow, do not keep interrupting. Yes, I say, being a Russian exile, for some offence or other, it was quite a reasonable deceit to practise. But, while it was almost certain that Hertzen was not his real name, it was equally certain that he was some relation of Vera’s, for he lavished a vast amount of care and attention on her which could not be accounted for on any other supposition. At the same time it was very curious that my informant would not say who he believed Hertzen to be, so on that point I am still quite ignorant.”

“Go on, go on, please; and remember that I want to know about Vera,” I said, with some impatience.

“Listen, then. Your wife’s father was a Russian Count, a man of great wealth, who lived at Warsaw! Vera, his daughter, developed into the beautiful girl we met. Count Nicholas Seroff, her father, was a brave and loyal soldier, and when the Turko-Russian War broke out in 1877 was placed in a responsible position. He had previously served with great distinction in the Crimea, where he gained the sky-blue ribbon of St. Andrew ‘For Faith and Loyalty.’” Bob paused.

“After the war, the count retired to his house in the Njazlov at Warsaw, where he bestowed all his paternal affection on Vera. The two became inseparable, and for a long time, I hear, lived together as one soul.”

“For a long time, you hear – what happened then?”

“We met them at Genoa.”

“But do you mean to say your information ended abruptly at this point? Have you learned nothing since?”

“Nothing whatever. I did not trouble after my return to think any more about the matter. It was only while we were both interested in her that I was interested. You don’t think,” added he, in a half-jesting manner, “that I have nothing else to do but to run after every pretty girl who appears to have a romantic mystery about her, do you?”

“Are you speaking seriously?” I asked, my hopes sinking as rapidly as they had risen.

“Quite,” was his reply.

“Why did you not tell me this on my return, when we saw her at the theatre, together? You knew all about it then, and you also knew how anxious I was.”

“True, but you did not broach the subject, and as soon as we caught sight of her you seemed fascinated, leaving me almost at once, so that I had no chance.”

“But there were plenty of occasions afterwards,” I contended impatiently.

Bob did not seem perturbed in the least. He merely lit another cigarette, as he replied, —

“Whenever I saw you afterwards you were so distant and uncommunicative that it appeared as if you knew far more than you apparently did. As you were still interested in her and her movements it was not my place to take the initiative.”

“And even if you had,” I rejoined, speaking rather warmly, for my disappointment was galling, “it would not have greatly mattered; you don’t seem to know a great deal, after all. It does not make very much difference.”

“Look here, Burgoyne, it is no use attempting to hide your thoughts from me in this matter. It appears as if you wish me to think you are sorry I know so little. Perhaps you are secretly glad that such is the case, eh? It would be awkward for some of your wife’s relations to find that photograph in your pocket, under these circumstances – what is your opinion? Those hot-blooded counts are very jealous relatives, I believe, and – ”

“By Heaven! you wrong me there, Bob,” I retorted, touched to the quick by the sneer. “In spite of all Vera’s treachery – in spite of our quarrels, I have never, for an instant been untrue to her – never!”

“Very well,” was his cool reply, “let us admit that. Can you, however, honestly explain your confusion – to say nothing of Rivers’ amazement – when it was produced?”

This direct question nonplussed me entirely. To explain all the facts without exposing Vera – which I was determined not to do – at first appeared a sheer impossibility. Bob watched my vain endeavours to think it out with clearness for several minutes.

Neither of us spoke. Leaning back in his chair he watched the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards. Then he rose again, and said in a tone of voice very sad for me to hear:

“Well, don’t trouble to reply to that last query of mine, Frank, if it causes you pain. I was a fool to make it. Good-bye,” and he held forth his hand.

“Stay,” I urged, “I’ll explain it as well as I can, if you’ll have patience.”

I had made up my mind to tell Bob as much as I could of the mystery surrounding the dead man, and ask his assistance.

Silently and almost incredulously he listened to my statement, as I briefly ran over the events of the night I had spent with the stranger. When I had finished, he asked, —

“And did you leave the body there, and not utter a word to any one? That was scarcely like yourself, was it?”

“But what was I to do? I should have been mixed up in the scandal again; and the question arises, where would it have ended?”

“And did you not search that box for further proof of his assertion? There might have been valuable evidence there.”

“There might! What an idiot I must have been not to think of that at the time. Supposing there were letters from – from – ”

“From the murderer? That is quite possible. Why not go and look at once?”

After discussing the matter at some length, it was decided that as soon as night fell I should go to the house alone, so as to lessen the risk of detection, and search the box. With this arrangement we separated, a load having been taken off my mind by this even partial confession to Bob.

Chapter Twenty Five

A Midnight Search

The hours crept on very slowly that day. To me they seemed interminable. A thousand times I glanced at the little clock that ticked so sharply on the mantelshelf, but its small hand sullenly, as it seemed, refused to move any faster.

Feeling that the suspense was becoming unbearable, I tried a short walk in the Strand. Scarcely had I gone a hundred yards along that busy thoroughfare before I espied Demetrius. He was strolling along in the same aimless fashion as myself. At first my impulse was to go and salute him, for his cheerful companionship might do much to arrest my melancholy feelings, and make the time pass rapidly. My next thought, however, was to avoid him, for he would be certain to notice my preoccupation, and might put me to trouble in framing evasive answers.

While I was thus debating with myself, he settled the point by catching sight of me and coming cheerfully up.

“Hey-day! and why so cheerless?” he cried, as he clasped me warmly by the hand. It was a favourite expression of his, and one which he very frequently used, in spite of its antiquated ring.

“Did I look cheerful?” I responded, purposely answering his inquiry oppositely. “The fact is I’ve come out to kill an hour or two, and when one is seeking amusement it’s not difficult to find it in the streets of this great city of ours, is it?”

He glanced at me with a curious expression in his eyes, and I wondered whether he saw through the forced flippancy of my reply.

“That’s it, is it?” he remarked. “Well, come along, and we’ll do our best to destroy some of your dread enemy, Time, for a while,” and forthwith he hurried me along several miles of streets, bustling among the people right and left, and keeping up a constant chatter which did much to relieve me, as all I need do was to return a fragmentary answer when occasion offered.

Presently, when we had reached a quiet corner, where conversation was much easier, I said, —

“By the way, now I think of it; where are you ‘hanging out’?”

He burst into a loud laugh as he asked, —

“Is it possible you don’t know?”

“’Pon my honour, it never occurred to me to inquire till this moment. Where are you staying?”

“Number 171,” he answered, still laughing.

“Number 171 where – why don’t you speak plainly, and not keep a fellow waiting when he wants to get to his hotel to keep an appointment?”

“What! another engagement! – with the lady whose photograph you were passing to the fellows at the Junior Garrick last night, eh? I heard about it, old fellow,” he exclaimed, evidently thinking he had a fine chance to chaff me. Seeing my frown at the reference, he continued: “Seriously, it is curious you did not know of my whereabouts. My room is 171 at the Charing Cross Hotel, and yours is 172 – now do you see why I laughed?”

“Your room next to mine!” I said in concern, the thought that perhaps he might have overheard my interview with Frank that morning suddenly occurring to me.

“Well, there’s nothing to be alarmed at, is there? I’ve not escaped from quarantine. By the way, I took an opportunity of calling upon you this morning, and as you did not notice my timid rap – you know I always give a timid rap, for you’ve often laughed at it – I peeped in. You were, however, so deeply ingrossed in conversation with your friend Nugent that I did not think fit to disturb you, and came away. He’s an old friend of yours, isn’t he?” he asked, carelessly.

When Demetrius told me this my heart stood still; yet what was there to fear? I could have as well trusted him as Frank. Yet somehow the idea of Demetrius knowing about this was intensely disagreeable, especially after his ironical reference to the photograph, which had been uttered in a rather threatening tone.

Hastily muttering something about being sorry he had not come in as Bob was very good company, I looked at my watch and bade him an abrupt adieu. He seemed inclined to walk back with me, but seeing his intention I called a cab and bade the driver hurry to the hotel.

There is an indistinct recollection in my mind of having eaten a hasty dinner, but whether I really did so that eventful evening or not is a matter of speculation. At all events, I wrapped up warmly, for it was a wet night and the prospect was anything but inviting.

Determining to have a sharp walk in order to set my blood in circulation, I had started out, when it occurred to me that, having a good round sum in notes in my pocket, it would be policy to leave them behind. Hurrying back I did this, and turned out sundry valuables from my pocket-book. Then the seal, on its blood-stained and crumpled paper, became apparent in the depths of the wallet and the question arose, should I leave that also?

Since the night when it was given me by the trembling hands of the man whose room I was now about to invade, it had rested securely there, for I had been afraid to let it out of my possession on any account. It would perhaps be best to leave it at the hotel, under lock and key, so I put it in a little cash-box in my portmanteau. But the next moment a superstitious dread seized me, and I replaced it again in the pocket-book, and then once more started on my adventurous errand.

Before long I reached the spot. It was a rather tall house, uninhabited apparently, for its lower windows were covered with hoarding, and generally the structure bore a grim, uninviting appearance. On the first occasion, when the poor fellow had dragged me there in a kind of mad frenzy, I had not taken particular notice of the manner in which we effected our entrance, but, as there was no one about, I made a careful scrutiny of a side-door.

As I gave it a violent push the noise resounded through the empty place with such a hollow clamour that a chill fell upon my heart, and, save for the intense curiosity which possessed me, I should have come away, leaving the place unexplored.

But this was rendered impossible, for, although the moment had been carefully chosen when there was not a person in sight, my indecision, lasting for several minutes, brought other consequences in its train. The corner where the door was located was a dark one, it was true, yet, as the measured tread of a constable fell upon my strained ears, I saw immediate action was imperative. The prospect of a bull’s-eye lantern being suddenly flashed upon one was not at all encouraging, and was not to be faced.

Another and stronger jerk at the door proved that it was fastened, or that something so obstructed its opening that more force, and therefore more noise, was needed. This would not do; therefore, summoning up some of my old courage and resolution which had unaccountably deserted me of late, I speedily clambered in by a small window, through the broken upper panes of which it was easy to put one’s hand to turn the catch.

Having done this, and replaced, as well as possible in the circumstances, the piece of hoarding, I allowed the constable to pass on before moving further. My heart beat high for a moment as the glare from his lantern flashed through the chinks and lighted, like the gleaming of a fire, the miserable and musty-smelling apartment; but he passed on unheedingly, unsuspicious of the stealthy intruder near him.

When he had gone, all was dark. Never will the memory of that miserable contretemps be surpassed by a more disheartening experience. It required several minutes’ careful search to find the stairs, and my hands encountered all sorts of horrible recesses, as, painfully and slowly, I felt my way about.

The only occasion like it was when, in that dreary Russian dungeon, my hands had discovered the fatal seal. My thoughts instantly reverted to that night, then many months ago, and it felt to my excited and over-wrought nerves, that every crack my fingers found were portions of the occult inscription.

As I at last ascended the stairs my memory endeavoured to recall the position of the room in which I had left the body. It was certainly at the top of the house, for our ascent, in his weak state, had occupied some time.

Arrived at the top landing I struck a match, for it was evident that it would not be observed at such a height. To my surprise there were only two rooms, both entirely empty, one so small that it certainly could not have been the one in which that eventful night had been spent. The other was also small, and had not the shape that I remembered.

Obviously there was some mistake in my calculations, and dropping the burnt match upon the carpetless boards, I resumed my search, this time in a downward direction.

And now an event happened which added increased risk to the adventure, and which, even after the lapse of many months since its occurrence, I cannot think of without a thrill of excitement.

In treading upon the match my face in some way became reversed, so that my next steps, carefully guided as I was by the wall, were in the wrong direction. The first indication I had of this was a collision, with some force, with the balustrades of the stairs. These appeared to be very old and rickety, for as my heavy frame dealt them a blow they shook and rattled ominously.

To seize them convulsively was the work of an instant; but, quick as thought, I had drawn back and thrown myself on my side.

After swaying for a second, the heavy railing plunged forward and fell with a sound almost like thunder down the whole height of the building, bumping from stage to stage in the most hideous manner.

I was saved; but what next!

For a time I lay and listened, as little pieces of plaster rolled down the stairs and the rats scuttled restlessly about. Then, half-dazed, I felt for the matches, which, happily, were safe in my pocket.