Whoso Findeth a Wife

“Then, as far as you are concerned, you are unable to determine the cause of death?”

“Quite. It is a mystery.”

The next witness was a thin, white-haired, dapper little man, who, in reply to questions, explained that he was analyst to the Home Office, and had, at the request of the police, submitted the contents of the deceased’s stomach to analysis, the position of the hands pointing to a slight suspicion of poison.

“And what have you discovered?” inquired the Coroner, the Court being so silent that the proverbial pin, if it had been dropped at that moment, might have been heard.

“Nothing,” he answered clearly. “There was no sign of anything of a deleterious nature whatsoever. The deceased was certainly not poisoned.”

The assembly of excited townspeople again shifted uneasily, as it was wont to do after every important reply which might elucidate the mystery. It seemed as though a rumour had been circulated that Dudley had been poisoned, and this declaration of the renowned analyst set at rest for ever that wild, unfounded report. People turned to one another, whispering excitedly, and a shadow of disappointment rested upon their inquisitive countenances. They had expected it to be pronounced a case of murder, whereas it would now be proved that death had occurred from some natural but sudden and unknown cause.

“Then you have no opinion to offer as to the cause of death!” the Coroner exclaimed.

“None whatever,” was the reply, and that concluded the analyst’s important testimony.

The foreman of the jury expressed a wish to put a question to Ella, and a few moments later she stood where I had stood, and removing her glove, took the oath with trembling voice.

“Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Laing, that Mr Ogle’s declaration of love to you had aroused the enmity of Mr Deedes?” asked the man, seriously.

“No,” she answered in a tone so low that I could scarcely distinguish the word.

“Mr Deedes was your lover, wasn’t he?”

“I am still engaged to him,” she replied, tears welling in her eyes. “He tells a falsehood when he says that our love is at an end.”

“Then why did you not tell him of Mr Ogle’s declaration?”

“Because they were friends, and I did not wish to arouse animosity between them.”

Slight applause followed this reply, but it was instantly suppressed.

The Coroner, to bring matters to a conclusion, asked, “Now, knowing Mr Ogle as intimately as you did, do you suspect that he might have been murdered?”

She gasped, swayed slowly forward and gripped the corner of the baize-covered table to steady herself.

“Yes,” she answered in a clear but tremulous voice. “I – I believe he was murdered.”

A thrill of excitement and wonder ran through the onlookers. Her handsome face was ashen pale, and her breast, beneath her blouse of cool-looking muslin, rose and fell quickly, showing how intense was her agitation.

“And what causes you to believe this?” asked the Coroner, raising his brows in interrogation.

“I have suspicions,” she answered in a low voice, striving to remain calm, and glancing quickly around the silent assembly.

“You suspect some person of having been guilty of murder?” he asked, interested.

“Not exactly that,” she said quickly. “That Mr Ogle was murdered I feel confident, but who committed the crime I am unaware. It is a mystery. Knowing Mr Ogle so well as I did, he entrusted to me knowledge of certain facts that he strenuously kept secret from others. Yet I cannot conceive who would profit by his death.”

At this point the inspector of police rose and expressed a desire to know, through the Coroner, whether she had quarrelled with Mr Ogle.

“The day prior to his death we had a few words,” she faltered.

“Upon what subject?” asked the Coroner.

She at first refused to reply, but after being pressed, said, “We quarrelled about my engagement to Mr Deedes.”

So she acknowledged with her own lips that the dead man had been my bitter enemy, as I, too late, had discovered.

“He wished you to marry him?” suggested the Coroner. She did not answer, but burst into a fit of hysterical tears, and a few moments later was led out of the Court.

“I think, gentlemen,” the Coroner observed, turning to the jury, “no end can be obtained in pursuing this very painful inquiry further. You have heard the evidence, and while on the one hand the exact cause of death has not been established, on the other we have Miss Laing declaring that the unfortunate gentleman was murdered. The evidence certainly does not point to such a conclusion, and there are two courses that may be pursued; either to adjourn the inquiry, or to return an open verdict and leave the elucidation of the mystery in the hands of the police.”

The jury, after consulting among themselves, retired, but only for five minutes, coming back into court and returning an open verdict of “Found dead.”

Then, as the Coroner thanked the twelve tradesmen for their attendance, I rose and crossed to Beck, afterwards walking with him to “The Nook.”

Chapter Eight

“I Dare Not!”

“What do you think of Ella’s statement?” Beck asked, as we were crossing Staines Bridge on our way to Mrs Laing’s.

“I can’t understand it,” I replied.

“Neither can I,” he said. “Girls of her excitable temperament are apt to make statements of that character utterly without foundation. No doubt Dudley was her intimate friend, and finding him dead, her romantic mind at once conjured up visions of murder.”

“Yes. There is a good deal in your argument,” I admitted, with a touch of sorrow at the remembrance that Ogle had aspired to her hand.

“I never spoke to you on the subject, for fear of making mischief, but I have many times been amazed at your blindness when Dudley and Ella used to flirt openly before your very eyes,” he observed, glancing at me.

“Ah! you are right,” I cried angrily. “I foolishly trusted him, believing implicitly in his honour and in Ella’s purity.”

“Of the latter you surely have no cause for suspicion,” he exclaimed quickly.

“I am not so certain,” I replied with bitterness. “The more deeply I attempt to probe this mystery, the more sorrow I heap upon myself. I was happy in the belief that she loved no other man except me, yet apparently she is as tactful as an adventuress, and delights in toying with a man’s affections.”

“Every woman is fickle,” my friend remarked sympathetically. “If she is thrown into the society of one man frequently, and passes idle hours alone with him, she either ends in loving him or hating him. There is little purely platonic friendship between men and women nowadays.”

“Yes, alas!” I echoed, as we entered the carriage drive and passed the well-remembered spot where I had discovered the body. “There is very little indeed.”

A quarter of an hour later I stood alone before the window of the bright morning-room which commanded a beautiful view of the brilliant, sunlit Thames, and the row of tall, swaying poplars and drooping, wind-whitened willows on the opposite shore. I was awaiting Ella, who had, her maid told me, gone to her room.

Presently, pale-faced and trembling, she entered, and, closing the door, moved slowly towards me, stretching forth her hand in silence, her tearful eyes downcast. I grasped the slim, white fingers, and found them cold as marble.

“Geoffrey,” she exclaimed, low and huskily. “Geoffrey, forgive me!”

“Forgive! For what reason?” I inquired sternly, looking at her in admiration, yet determined to be firm. This was, I resolved, to be our last interview.

“Because I – I was foolish and weak, and – ” She paused, sighing deeply.

“Well?” I said cynically. “What other excuse?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried brokenly. “I know they are mean, paltry excuses. I know I am trying to make you believe it was not my own fault, yet – ” and pausing again, she raised her clear blue eyes to mine with passionate glance, “and yet, Geoffrey, I love you in a manner I have loved no other man before.”

“You have a strange way of exhibiting this so-called affection,” I observed coldly. “You actually encouraged the advances of the man in whom I reposed foolish and ill-placed confidence.”

“For a purpose. I never loved him – never,” she protested, trembling.

“You had a reason? A strange one, I should think,” I exclaimed angrily. “Indeed, at this very moment you are mourning the loss of this man.”

“Dudley Ogle was not your enemy, Geoffrey. He was your friend,” she answered, with a tremor in her voice. “Some day I will prove this to you. I cannot now. It is impossible.”

“Why?”

“I dare not!”

“Dare not! What do you fear?” I demanded in surprise, instantly releasing her hand.

“The consequences would be fatal to our love,” she gasped. Then, after a pause, she clutched my arm, and, burying her beautiful face upon my shoulder, sobbed bitterly.

“Our love!” I echoed contemptuously. Notwithstanding the fierceness of my anger, I smoothed her dark gold hair, and presently, when she grew a trifle calmer, endeavoured to discover the meaning of her strange, enigmatical words.

“You cannot know – you will never know – how dearly I have loved you, Geoffrey,” she cried, in answer to my eager questions. “Neither will you ever know how much I have suffered, how hard I have striven for your sake.”

“For my sake! Yet you admit having allowed Dudley Ogle to utter words that I alone had a right to utter!”

“Yes, I admit all,” she said, with a tragic touch of sorrow in her strained voice. “I deny nothing.”

“And you come to me asking forgiveness, believing that I can again trust you without hearing any explanation of your recent strange conduct with Beck, as well as with Dudley! I think you must regard me, Ella, as a weak, impressionable fool,” I added, with bitter sarcasm.

“No, I do not,” she cried quickly. “I appeal to your generosity towards a woman. I have been compelled to act against my own inclinations, compelled, in order to outwit my enemies, to act a part despicable and revolting. I can now only ask forgiveness,” and, throwing herself suddenly upon her knees before me, she cried, “See! Geoffrey, I crave one grain of pity from you, my old friend, the only man I have loved!”

“No, Ella,” I answered, quickly withdrawing my hand that she was pressing to her hot, fevered lips. “I may pity you, but forgive you never.”

“Never!” she gasped, clasping her breast with her hands as if to stay the wild beating of her heart, and struggling unevenly to her feet. “Why never?”

“Because you have deceived me.”

“Yes, yes!” she wailed. “I admit it, I admit it all, but I swear my actions were imperative. Ah! alas that you cannot know everything, or you would kiss me as fondly as you used to do. You, Geoffrey, would love me with a love even more tender and passionate than before, if only you were aware of what I have suffered for your sake.”

I turned from her in disgust. Her tragic attitude filled me with loathing and contempt, for I knew she was lying.

“Can you never again trust me?” she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. “Will you never forgive?”

“I can have no further confidence in a woman who has practised such artful deception as you have,” I answered, turning again towards her, and noticing the look of unutterable sadness in her tearful eyes.

“Deception!” she cried, starting. “What do you mean? What have I done?”

“You acknowledge having deceived me wilfully with all the deep cunning of an adventuress, yet you refuse me one word of explanation, either in regard to Beck or Dudley?”

“There is nothing to explain, as far as Mr Beck is concerned,” she answered demurely. “He is an old friend, and your suspicions that there was any love between us are absolutely absurd.”

“Why, then, did you confess in your letter that you were unworthy of my love!” I demanded with warmth, walking towards her.

She hung her head. There was a deep silence, broken only by the low ticking of the clock. In a few moments her hand stole in search of mine, and, engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I let it linger there.

“Geoffrey,” she said at length, timidly.

I gazed out upon the sunlit river, watching a boatful of happy holiday folk pass by, and remained stolidly unconscious.

“Geoffrey,” she repeated, “I tried ever so long to refrain from that confession, yet was unable. But I did not allude to Mr Beck. It was my conduct with Dudley that caused me to become a conscience-stricken wretch. I feared from day to day that you might discover our many long excursions and the idle afternoons we spent up the backwaters; he lazy and indolent, I using all my woman’s wiles to fascinate him and bring him to my feet.”

“And you succeeded,” I interrupted huskily.

“Yes, I succeeded,” she went on, speaking slowly, almost mechanically. “I had set my mind upon victory, and I achieved it after weeks and weeks of striving, dreading always that you might discover the truth, and fearing lest my conduct should appear in your eyes too serious for forgiveness. The blow that I dreaded has now fallen,” she cried, with a choking sob. “Dudley is dead, and I, compelled to speak the truth, have publicly acknowledged myself unworthy of your love.”

“Is it not best that I should know the truth?” I asked seriously. “You render your behaviour the more unpardonable by the absurd falsehoods you wish me to believe.”

“I do not wish you to believe any falsehoods,” she cried resentfully, her bright eyes flashing as she glanced at me. “What I have now told you is the truth. I swear it before Heaven!”

“You deliberately flirted with Dudley, with an object in view. Oh, no!” I laughed with contempt, “that is too lame a tale.”

“It is the truth,” she said, looking me straight in the face, her nervous hands toying with her rings. “Even though you may believe ill of me, I have lost neither honour nor self-respect. I acted under compulsion, to achieve one object.”

“And I hope you have gained the mysterious end you had in view,” I said, with bitter sarcasm.

“Yes, I have,” she replied, with an intenseness in her voice that surprised me. “I have gained my object even at risk of being discarded by you, Geoffrey, and being branded as a base adventuress.”

“Even at the cost of the life of the man you deceived?” I hazarded.

She started at my words. Her pale lips trembled, and in her eyes was a strange look, as if haunted by some spectral fear. The effect of this remark was extraordinary, and I at once added, —

“Remember, you suspect that Dudley’s death was not due to natural causes.”

“Suspect?” she cried. “I know he was foully murdered.”

“By whom?” I inquired, with breathless eagerness.

“I have yet to discover that,” she answered, in a low voice. “But I will make the elucidation of the mystery the one object of my life. It is I alone who will avenge his murder.”

“Your very words betray your love for him,” I exclaimed, disgusted.

“I tell you it is not because I loved him,” she protested, with indignation.

“Then why do you seek revenge?” I demanded ruthlessly.

“For reasons known to myself – reasons I refuse for the present to disclose,” she replied, regarding me with unwavering glance.

“And you expect me to again repose confidence in you, notwithstanding your steady refusal to explain anything?” I observed, with a laugh.

“All I have told you now, Geoffrey, is the truth,” she replied, looking earnestly into my eyes. “Once I deceived you, but I will never do so in future. I promise some day before long to explain all the facts to you; when I do so they will astound you. For the success of my plans I am compelled at present to preserve my secret, even from you.”

“What are your plans?”

“Be patient, and you shall see.”

“You intend to avenge Dudley’s death?”

“I do; and something further,” she said. “Only by the most careful investigation and the strictest secrecy can my plans be successfully carried out. Trust in me, Geoffrey. Tell me that you will reconsider your decision not to forgive me,” she whispered, leaning upon my shoulder with one arm entwined affectionately about my neck, as was her habit. “And I will yet prove to you that I am an honest woman who has acted only in your interests.”

“In my interests? How?” I asked, amazed.

“You shall know all later, when I have ascertained the truth.”

“Tell me one thing, Ella,” I exclaimed, after a pause. “Have you any idea whether Dudley had any occupation?”

“Occupation? I always understood he had enough money to be independent.”

Then taking from my vest pocket the object I had picked up from among the contents of the dead man’s pockets displayed on the table in the Coroners’s Court, I held it up to her, saying seriously, —

“Now, tell me truthfully, Ella, have you ever seen this in Dudley’s possession?”

She glanced at it for an instant, holding her breath, as across her blanched countenance there passed an expression of bewildered amazement.

The object I held beneath her gaze was insignificant in itself, merely a small brass seal, but it bore the Warnham arms in exact imitation of the cut amethyst worn by the Earl. It was the seal which had been used to manufacture the duplicate of the envelope containing England’s secret alliance with Germany.

The suddenness with which I had produced it startled and nonplussed her. As I transfixed her blue eyes with my keen, suspicious gaze, her white lips moved, but no sound fell from them. Embarrassment held her dumb.

Chapter Nine

The Bond of Secrecy

I held the small brass stamp towards her, inviting her to examine it, but she shrank back with an expression of terror and repulsion, refusing to touch it.

“Have you ever seen Dudley with this in his hand?” I asked, repeating my question seriously, determined upon learning the truth.

“Where did you find it?” she inquired, a look of bewilderment upon her haggard face.

“You have not answered my question, Ella,” I said sternly.

“Your question? Ah!” she cried, as if in sudden remembrance of my words. “I – I have never seen Dudley with it. I – I swear I haven’t.”

“Is that the absolute truth?” I asked in doubt.

“The truth!” she echoed. “Did I not, a moment ago, promise you I would never again deceive you by word or action? Can you never have confidence in me?” she asked, in a tone of mingled regret and reproach.

“But this was found in Dudley’s possession,” I said, holding it nearer my gaze, and detecting in the bright sunlight streaming through the window small portions of black wax still adhering to the cleverly-cut coat of arms. Black wax, I remembered, had been used to secure the dummy envelope.

“And even if that were so, is it such a very remarkable fact that a man should carry a seal?” she asked suddenly, raising her brows and assuming a well-feigned air of surprise. At that instant it occurred to me that she was an adept in preserving a mystery; she could practice deception with a verisimilitude little short of marvellous.

“But this,” I observed, “is no ordinary seal.”

“It looks ordinary enough,” she answered, smiling. “It’s only brass.”

“But its discovery forms a clue to a most serious and startling crime,” I said.

“A crime!” she gasped. “What do you mean? Dudley’s murder?”

I did not fail to notice that she used the word “murder” as if she had absolute proof that death had not been due to natural causes. Yet the effect of my announcement had been to fill her with sudden apprehension. She strove to appear amazed, but I thought I could detect in her attitude and bearing a fear that I had knowledge of her secret.

“It is most probably connected with that tragic event,” I answered meaningly, looking her straight in the face. “The police will no doubt pursue their investigations and clear up the matter.”

“The police!” she whispered hoarsely, just as Mrs Laing had done when the officers had entered her house. “Do you think they will discover the cause of poor Dudley’s death?”

“I cannot say,” I answered calmly. “They will, however, discover the reason he had this seal in his possession.”

“I tell you it was not his – I mean I never saw him with it,” she protested.

“But he may have had it in his pocket and not shown it to you. Indeed, there were reasons that he should not do so because it was used for a nefarious purpose.”

“For what?” she asked, suddenly evincing an interest in the stamp, taking it from my hand and examining it closely.

It was on my tongue to relate to her the whole circumstances, but suddenly remembering that for the present the secret of England’s peril must be preserved if the identity of the spy were to be discovered, I refrained, and answered, —

“The man who used that seal committed one of the worst crimes of which a man can be guilty.”

“What was it; tell me?” she asked quickly. “Surely Dudley never committed any offence!”

“I am not certain,” I answered gloomily. “An enemy who would pose as a friend, as he has done, might be capable of any deceit.”

“Have I not already told you that he was not your enemy, Geoffrey?” she observed calmly.

“Ah, Ella,” I cried in disgust, “all these falsehoods only render your conduct the more despicable. You will deny next that you went down to Warnham to meet him surreptitiously.”

“To Warnham?” she cried, white to the lips.

“Yes. Do you deny it?”

“No. I – it is quite true that I met him there,” she faltered.

“You spent the day with my rival, unknown to me,” I went on bitterly. “Yet you declare that you never loved him?”

Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, her haggard eyes were fixed; she stood silent, unable to make reply.

“It is useless to further prolong this painful interview,” I exclaimed at last, turning from her.

“I swear I never loved him,” she cried suddenly. “Some day, when you know the truth, you will bitterly regret how you have misjudged me, how, while striving to serve you, I have fallen under suspicion.”

“But your visit to Warnham!” I said. “Is that an act such as can be overlooked without explanation?”

“I only ask you to place trust in me, and I will prove ere long that I acted under compulsion.”

“You want me to believe that he held you irrevocably in his power, I suppose?” I said with biting sarcasm.

She nodded, and held her head in downcast, dejected attitude.

“It is easy enough to allege all this, now that he is dead,” I observed doubtingly.

“I have told you the truth. I feared him, and was compelled to obey,” she exclaimed hoarsely.

“What was the object of your visit? Surely you can explain that?”

“No. I cannot.”

“You absolutely refuse?”

“Absolutely,” she answered, in a low, strained voice, looking straight at me with an expression of determination.

“Then we must part,” I said, slowly but firmly disengaging myself from her embrace.

“No, no,” she wailed, sobbing bitterly and clinging more closely to me. “Do not be so cruel, Geoffrey. You would never utter these words could you know all.”

“But you will not tell me,” I cried.

“At present I dare not. Wait; be patient, and you shall know everything.”

“How long must I remain in doubt and ignorance?” I asked.

“I know not. To-morrow the bond of secrecy may be removed from my lips, or it may be many months ere I can fearlessly speak and explain,” she answered in a strange voice, almost as if speaking to herself.

“From your words it would appear that some person still holds power over you, even though Dudley is dead,” I said, looking into her eyes seriously.

She sighed deeply, and her hand, resting upon my shoulder, trembled violently. “Yes, you guess the truth,” she answered. “I would tell you all – explain all these facts that no doubt puzzle you and cause me to appear base, heartless and deceitful – yet I fear the consequences. If I did so we should be parted for ever.”

“But if you told the truth and cleared your conduct, I should then have confidence again, and love you. How should we be parted?”

Pale and silent she stood, with her eyes resting upon the distant line of drooping willows. Not until I had repeated my question did she move and answer in a voice almost inaudible, as she clung to me, —

“We should be parted by death,” she whispered hoarsely.

“By death!” I cried, dismayed. “What do you mean, Ella? Do you fear that the same tragic fate that has overtaken Dudley will overtake you?”