The Room of Secrets

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 18, 26 February 1914, Page 2

The Room of Secrets

• CHAPTER XXV. (Continued.) "BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!" At the Marble Arch I parted from the) pair, they taking a taxi down to Scotland Yard, while I went in another cab westward in search of Joan, for,l wished to acquaint her with my. discovery without delay. Denman was going down to Winibledon Common to interview the father of the : airissing lady, Miss Ethel Farquhar, after first j placing a watch upon that house with j the locked room. As my taxi sped back along the Bayswater Road towards Nottiirg Hill Gate, I calmly reviewed, the" whoie ; . situation. First e,f all, :I w T as deeply-m love with Joan; I could- jnot conceal' the fact from myself; Whether really true that she had killed young Edwin Barlow I cared not. * .So mystified had 1 lately been, and ce|'f used-were-all thediappe-ttings of the 'past ffew* weeks, that; I felt .undecided ; ✓she were actually guilty,or, not. . ; ; : r i i loved her—yes,. I loved her, and for me, full of admiration and enthusiasm as I was, entranced by her dainty charm, her wondrous beauty i and the soft,, sympathetic look of those blue eyes, my affection was ail-sufficient. My .'only fear was that iny loVe was not reciprocated. I was older than she, and .the fact that I w«i endeavouri»g to bring her father under restraint —to prevent others from falling victims of that cruel, unscrupulous fiend—was, I feared, in itself, sufficient tb cause her to regard me with suspicion and distrust. But I loved her—-ah! how I loved her! The situation, was a far more complicated one than the problem at first presented. Koop, clever, elusive, and possessed of all that amazing cunning which lunacy engenders, understood that I was a living witness against him. Hence he feared me, and his only hope lay. in Joan, whom , he w;ould betray 'to the police the. instant I dared to carry out my threat. On. the other hand, there were Gilroy and Mrs Maxwell, also Joan's sworn,enemies, frantically anxious to see her in the dock at the Central CrtminaL., : Court, aid doing all they could to hound her dow n as the assassin of Edwin : Barlow, j Gilroy had, evidently, narrowly escaped falling a victim to Koop, but he attributed the trap to .Tofui, and not to her father. A wqrd; froVti Gilroy, or from Koop, and Joan in a moment, lind herfcelf; arirefeted, while if traeh • ■etnttrfetenips-' o"cfeu|«s I should, I saw quite clearly, experience the greatest difficulty accomplishing her release. After all, 1 Ltio ho proof ~pf her innocence —and, now I came to think of it, she, on her part, had never protested it. • The bitter thought, like a cankerworm, entered-i« to soul. Againj the-more I reflected, the less confident did I become "tiiiit the house we had searched that - night was the same house in which I .had so nearly lost my life. . Yeg," all was grim and shadowy. I had forsaken my ordinary life, and now

(By WILLIAM LE QTJEUX.) j

[COPYRIGHT.]

• sieemed to live in- an atmosphere of doubt and mystery, where there was no ! truth, no honesty, no straightforwardness of purpose—where all was terror and despair. I alighted before the house which Joan had indicated, a respectable, oldfashioned one in, j£bingdon Road, Kensington, just off the High Street, but there learnt,--to my dismay, that she had out an iuour ago. "She tooK dresSinig-bag with her," the maid told m3ej standing with the door ajar, " so I sffl||jbse she's gone away again. She's • been here very r-litXle of. late." 4. 4 "She' didn't say Habere she was going?' '■%; asked, dismayed'. " Noy%Mr, she never ®)e|. ! ; But " and the; girl hesitated!%*j ! "But what?" I a'ske«| noticing that the'" gi.rl sieemed confius<ssi : ; - '' Well—l—l hardily jlike to say, ■sir."- ■' . '•) •; 1 "Why-^—" I gasjfed. vj| '.What's the ■ matter? Tell me, I'm her most intimate friend." < '' Well, the fact i3,*sir, r l think she's very afraid—that she hasnmn away!" " Run away!'' I ? e<Shoedi,' '' Why?'' "Because the day before yesterday.a strange man came - and made a lot of enquiries of Mfs ( Rendell about •.her-r-very..funny enqu|asy.t> He was a shabby-looking man, aii(|i|Mrs Rendell thinks he must a detective. He was* very and wanted to know where she was, lsw long she's been away, and all tMat we knew about her.'' ' - h * "Mrs Rendell has told her this—eli?"'l remarked, in surprise, for it seemed that Gilroy, cad that lie was, had already carried out his threat, and the police were, in consequence, in search of her. "Yes, sir. Mistress ..came in about an hour ago, and I Hold-" Miss Cooper all abpujt ;the v >man," the maid replied. " She seemed, mueh upset) and packed her bag ! at once. Perhaps she was afraid to stay here any longer. When Mrs. Rendell spoke to liar she went as Avhite as a sheet, and "ail/ of a tremble. She's done something wrong, mistress declares, and the police are looking for her. You know her, sir! What do you think?" K '' What can I thiiify?'' I asked, blankly; "Is your rriistr&ss at home?" "No, sir, she, had /f go out to her sister over in' Fulham, wlip is very ill." I hesitated; Once agaiw poor Joan, haunted: by .the. shadow 'of. her guilt, had started off a fugitive. Where would it all end? So distracted was I by the thousand-and-one inexplicable features of the complicated jfrbblem that my brain reeled. -i Hitherto Joan had not viewed Gilroy as a dangerous enemy, but, with old Mrs Maxwell burning:; for revenge, little wonder was it |is| had been egged on to-go to the? j>olieei ■ Dfenman was in ignorance ,of^j]ie"enquiry in progress, yet,- whep: 1- saw that it was scareely astonishing. The crime at Golder's Green had, as far as ■Scotland Yard was concerned, no con-

nection with .the, recent disappearances in -!pays?wa,ter;'\ , , I reentered my taxi, anil, puzzled and perplexed, drove "back to Jermyn Street, where,, on entering my room, I was. amazed to see Joan herself, neat in a dark travelling gown, rise from my armchair to meet me. But how changed she had become in those few hours! "It's all over,'' she whispered, hoarsely, as soon as I had closed the door so that Davis should not overhear. "I know," I said. "I've been down to Abingdon Road, and the maid has told me. The police have been there enquiring for you." "Yes. As soon as I was told by my landlady, I escaped. But where am I to go?" she asked, looking around as though bewildered. Her sweet face was ashen, her voice low and broken, and, by her dark-rimmed eyes, I saw that she was in abject terror of arrest. " f 'We' must - decide that," I said. "For the present,'remain calm." "Mrs Maxwell has, no doubt, laid.information mei " she said, scarce above a whisper. ." That woman means to hunt ine 'dpwn, ?', , . ; , "She certainly seems very bitter against you,.',' I said.. . KBut it strikes me as so v,ery curious that, even now, in the moments of your greatest peril, you refuse, tip, be a.ny party to the suppression of your father's mad crimes. You have, I know l , held him in fear—not knowing what he might allege against you, but now, with Gilroy's hand, raised against you, cannot you remain firm, and.defy them both?" "Impossible," she cried, covering her white, hard face with both her small hands. "Impossible," she wailed in her despair. , I rose, and standing beside her, ten--derly took her hand as she sat in my chair, a frail, pathetic, little whitefaced jqent. in tears, and overcome Ayith grief and remorse. 4 ' The whole world seems determined to hunt me down, to crush—to punish me!" she cried, in tears.' "I have no friend. Every man's hand is raised against me." "I am your friend, Joan," I said, very quietly; "because I love you." "Love!" she echoed, raising her tear-stained face, and staring at me strangely. "Are you acting wisely in telling me this, Mr Colefax? Can you —a man of honour —ever love a woman who —whose hands are; —are stained—'' "No—no! " I cried, interrupting her. "Not another word," and, bending towards her, I whispered; "I may be foolish —mad, perhaps —but you, Joan, and all this mystery have driven me to madness. I love you! I love you with all my heart—and with all my soul. No man has ever loved you as I do. My heart is yours, darling. I am your friend l —be mine.'' Her only answer, was a low, broken sob. ' ' . ■ < I pressed the soft, little hand of the homeless fugitive, and in a low voice continued with deep earnestness: "Trust in awe, dearest. - Let me help you—now that you are in such deadly peril of arrest." '' How can you help me?" she asked, hopelessly,- 'through her tears. '' No, Sidney, yo u iave 80U g ht arrest m y father—and now^—now ; I .must, alas! suffer, for I am already . betrayed —betrayed! " : i. • > . . ! At that : moment the telephone bell ! rang sharply* and I was compelled to leave her side and pass into my little den to. answer it. .. I put the receiver to my ear, answered an inquiring voice, and then lis-

tened—listened eagerly, breathlessly, aghast, to a story which, instead of, in any way, elucidating the weird, astounding, problem of Koop and his crimes—increased tlie mystery, and rendered it more and more inscrutable. CHAPTER -XXVI. ON DANGEROUS GROUND. ; ' "Joan—you must get away from here at once," I said, in a low whisper, when again I returned to her side. ' "I know,' she gasped, springing to her feet. "I ought never to have come here —to yon.. It was too dangerous. But look at iho time —it's nearly 11 o'clock. Where can I go?" I reflected for a few seconds. .."Denman had just told me over, the 'phone that he wished to see me again that night, as he had something to tell me —something to say about Joan Cooper. He had hinted at some strange revelation; therefore I saw that, at all hazards, she must evade the police, who were, alas! now hot upon her trail. It was known that she was my friend; therefore I would certainly be watched. . Returning to my den I obtained the "A B C" Guide, and, having consulted it, quickly made up my mind as to her course of action. "There's not a moment to lose, dearest," I said, on going back to her side again. "You must take the 11.30 from King's Cross to Newcastle, and leave there to-morrow morning at 9 by ( the Norwegian steamer for Bergen. Newcastle is one of the ports which the police do not watch. Therefore, you will be safe. At Bergen take the next steamer south for Christian! a, and stay at the Grand urider an assumed I name. I'll meet. you there later. What name will you adopt?'' "Beckett—Mary Beckett," she suggested, after a pause. "Right-o! But how about your luglage? You only have your dressipgcase,'' for I had seen it upon a chair in the hall. "I have a trunk in the cloak-room at Charing Cross. I left it there three weeks ago," she said. "Very well. .We'll first go and get it, and then on to King's Cross," I said, eagerly. Returning to the telephone I rang up the stationmaster's office at King's Cross for- a sleeper for "Miss Beckett,'' and ten minutes later we were in a taxi on our way to get her trunk. * " Norway is your best hiding-place, dearest," I said as I sat in the cab with her little hand in mine. "My loving thoughts for your safety and future happiness go with you on your journey. I am afraid that the winter crossing- of the North Sea will not be very pleasant, but at least you will be able to leave tlie country in safety" and remain in concealment —safe from Gilroy arid Mrs M'axwell. "Mont, people who endeavour to escape from London make the fatal' error of going south, and by so doing fall into the hands of the police who watch the ordinary Channel routes. But nobody ever thinks of the Norwegian steamers, and the ease with which a passage „ may be secured on them." . .... ; , ' '< I will adopt your suggestion,;'' she said, il for I know that your advice is always sound.'' "It is, as far as my "judgment carries me," I assured her. "For, as I have,already told you, Joan," I added, pressing her hand still lying in mine, "I love .you—I love you! " She drew a deep sigh, bu]t made no response* . Her ; pale fa.ee was. averted as we swung into the yard at Charing Cross, where, on .giving the ticket to a porter, a much-battered dross trunk was placed upon the cab. Then we started to King's Cross. On the way I though of what Denman had told me over the telephone, and again I pressed her ungloved ha,nd, and carried it tenderly' to my lips. The .supreme madness of- Jove had seized me, for she now possessed me, body and soul. She was mine. That look in Jier eyes made my head reel.. I .was loath —very, loath—to part with her; but in that way lay security. I would telegraph for a berth for her on board the steamer, and, once at sea, the police would lose all trace of her. Scotland Yard is usually astute and clever in many ways, but its vigilance and watchfulness is far inferior to that of the French Surete, or the Secret Police' of Italy. English criminals get away abroad with much greater ease and more frequently than French or Italian. Perhaps because of the lax methods, perhaps because of England's- constant traffic on the seas. As I sat there, my arm stole around her . narrow waist, and as I drew her towards me I felt her trembling. '' Joan,'' i whispered, '' you will trust ine now—*-won't you - ?" She-' made no reply. . Her eyes were fixed straight before her into the darkness and gloom of the Bloomsbury Btr'Cßts. "Won't you trust me?" I repeated. "Will you not give me one single ray of hope? You already know—you must have - s'eeti how deeply I love you." <<i- —I know," she answered at last. ''But—it—it can never be." " Why notjv Joan? I love you, darling,, and soori .there must be a break in these dark clouds which have so long overshadowed your young life- soon the truth .will be revealed, and your father held in restraint." , "Ah, the truth!" cried my well-be-loved, wildly.. " The awful truth! No, Sidney—you-must not love me. When we part now- —leave me forget me foi ever. : Such, a course will be best —the best for both of us." • "Do .you think "that I shall ever, forget that I owe my life to you, Joan?" I asked. "Do you think it possible for me to overlook the fact that at the risk of your own life you saved mine! " «' Ah! That is all of the past," she declared. "We are now speaking of love. You have declared your love for me —-me, a woman who is worthless r and worse!' 7 -vi : ' '< I care nothing, my dearest, I replied, in mad recklessness; "all I want is your own;dear, sweet self—to see you at last, living in peace and .happiness." * I I Ali! that, alas! can never be!" she J replied, sighing and shaking her head | i-n sorrow.: '' There is neither peace j nor happiness for me. Both are debarred, aud I have now to bear my punishment.':' "Whatever may be your guilt, Joan, I know that vou did not stain your hands with blood deliberately and inteiitionallv. There were certain strong:: reasons. "What were they? Tell mep darling. Do.tell me, I beg of you."-'' "You are right," she faltered; "it was not intentional." ' " Then if it were an accident, your •crime was one of manslaughter, not murder," I remarked. "Can you: prove that it was an accident?" She slowly shook her head in the 1 negative, i< ■ < . '! "But you shall not be allowed to ■suffer for a crime you did not -coiiir mit! * I cried. "I will see that foul charge against you is witltdrtwn at onee."

Slie only smiled faintly, then said: — "I fear you will experience a great , difficulty —for Gilroy is my bitterest i enemy—now that he knows you and I love each other.'' ''Then you do really love me, Joan?" I cried, starting forward and catching her in my arms. ' Yet how strange it was that I should 1 love a woman upon whom there had • settled such a . black, impenetrable ' cloud of suspicion and woman who, upon her own confession, had ' killed her lover! - ! Could any situation have been more curious, more abnormal, more full of i grave personal peril'? She did not mov3, did not even try io disengage herself from my strong embrace, but remained there inert, her eyes closed, her breath coming in short, convulsive gasps. I felt her pressure close upon my hand, 'an,d then I knew, to my joy, that, :ifter all, she was not averse to me —that within her heart, though she was struggling so desperately against it —she entertained for me more affection than I had ever dreamed. Neither of U3 spoke as the taxi rushed through those dark squares which lay between Oxford Street and the Euston Road. " Tell me, Joan/ ' I whispered in her ear at last, "do you love me?" For answer she again pressed my hand. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Her eyes were still closed; jet, as I bejit and, for Ujo'firat time, my Jips touched hern, .1 found them coid. Her face was pale, arid an my lips met hers a shudder ran through her slight frame. This surprised me. was entirely unresponsive. Perhaps her attitude was due to the constant v/ar within herself, for had she not declared to me half a dozen times that love between us was impossible—only a dream : incapable of realisation. j Nevertheless, in that brief half hour —now that I had learnt the true rc:r?on of her terror —the barrier bctvvC'3'i us had broken down, and she had apparently resigned herself to the inevitable. My heart leaped for joy, for I knew, by the unspoken isign,'. the pressure .upon my hand, th'at she had a Jmilted the 'i ■ My affection was reciprocated, bhe was mio'e— mine! At one moment I "felt filled with an unspeakable joy; at the next I experienced a hazy belief that I had acted with grave indiscretion —that my. mad infatnation must certainly be attended with gravest consequences. Bern ember, I was no raw, inexperienced youth, prone to fall in love with the first pretty face I met, but a mail who had met many beautiful women in the course of a busy, changeful life; women who had smiled upon me, flirted with me, and 'had allowed me to kiss them upon the cKeek. But Joan was vastly different to them all. She was pale, modest, and inexpressibly beautiful. Vividly I remembered that fatal night when, against her will, she was forced to drink that eoffee which Ibrahim had handed her. I recollected, too, that weird' picture in which- she was depicted in the death-agony beneath the' Nubian's-brutal hands. She was utterly hopeless, utterly friendless. I had been her only friend/ she had told me, and now she loved ■lie—yes, ghe really loved me' But we were to part. It might bo weeks, months, before I dare approach her again—months of weary longing and sad loneliness, for now that she was mine Tlived for her, and her alone. "I shall not write to you, Joan, "I said, at last; for want of something else to say. Hit'might be dangerous. Butwhen it is safe I will either telegraph . ior come .to you at the Grarid in Christiania.': You, however, will write tome at my club, using no name or address —will you?" < < Certainly,'' was her quiet response. "Arid you do Teally love me?" I demanded again, bending so close and. intent that my face nearly touched: hers. For a few seconds she -remained silent. v Then she turned to me, and in a low, sweet voice, responded with a loving smile: "You surely guessed my secret long ago —didn't you?" "No. I feared to guess anything," I blurted forth. "But now that I know what is hidden within your heart I am entirely happy. Let us hope on, dearest," I said, pressing her to my side. '' Let us strive towards peace, let us trust in each other, and, above all, in these serious circumstances, let us act with all caution and discretion. A single injudicious step might land you in a criminal's cell. Hence we must exercise all care and cunning if we are to outwit your enemies," , "Outwit my enemies? How can that be done? '' _ s '«■ i By .those words she had, indeed, put a problem to which I had no solution. Nevertheless, in order to. reassure her, I said::— • i ' i i " Leave England, and allow me to act on your behalf, dearest. My .interests arid yours are now identical." "JSTo," she protested, "they are not identical. You desire to place :n>y jpoor father under restraint, yet. remember, ,notwithstanding, his fearful affliction and his misdeeds, he is -still my father —and —and I cannot be a party to his arrest and conviction." "Ah,! I quite* understand,l said, in sympathy. "Besides, I foresee a great ami terrible scandal- —a,sensation which would alarm and horrify the public wlien the truth becomes "But it must never be. known, Sidney," she said, imploringly, laying her hand quickly upon mine, .'fit must all be hushed up, andyyoyou —you —if you lore me, will help me to hush it up.'' "Alas! That's impossible!" "What?" she cried, starting up. "You refuse?" "Not at all. You misunderstand me. The -police are already in active search of your father, they " "They've been endeavouring to find him for months, but he's far too clever for she remarked, confidently. "There is, indeed, a strange method in madness, Sidney." \ "I know. 'But only to-night the police have discovered the whereabouts of the house of shadows in Bayswater," ) I. told her. "I have been there." i "You! —inside the house!" she j gasped, staring at me and drawing herself away. . , " Yes —not a couple of hours ago." She spoke no w:ord. I saw Avhat a change my announcement had wrought in her, for her face had become blanched to the lips. . ' ( "Who —how did they discover it?" she asked, in a low, blank Voice. "I thought my father was far too wary to risk detection." _ I told her of the blue electric flashes across the upper window, and of how I had entered with the police ~ * and searched the place. In a few, hasty words I described what had hap- ' pened earlier that evening, and to it ' ali she listened, sighing, but uttering no : word. She only sat back in the cab, her face deathly pale in the -darkness. " Ah!" she cried, -starting up at last. "Then, in view of this, my peril is £ar greater than I had. ever imagined. I

• : j -h- -.i>»' hiU ; j « ij ' )■!(■ i'i'iiQl J J ■■ ■ .: .v. " • did not know that 1516 JCoufcC had al- ; : ready been "But is it really the liGtisG to which Jessie conducted-me- night?'' I asked, gravely. :<» : r: <*■-, . i; i "You: have bteen haye recognised its futlai'fcure/.ytm say," she exclaimed/ "If ifc;is'>on the corner,' it is the house,' 'sho» iwMed. "I must warn my father nofeitOsgo theref or he will fall into, their hand's.'' . '' You surely will;' tnot' do that—you surely will not warn ;.Min! " I cried; btxt at that moment the taxi suddenly drew . up before the booking office Kline's Cross station, and there being only a few minutes in which to. have her trunk' labelled, and. to catch., Scotch might express, I had to rush sabout in order that she should not lose, it. The sleeping car, .attendant had a berth reserved for her, and as I stood j 'wishing her good-bye, I again referred to the house of shadows. There were still three minutes to spare before the train left. '' Who is that young man, Klein?'' I asked. ''He says he doesn't know you." '' Probably. Jiot. I 'ye not. been to the place since the night wjheii—when you so nearly lost your < ~ " J " "o.f course, lie is, . lying;, '!' I re-, marked. , "No doubt he js paid to do so, as so; many servants are." • . '' But, Joan, we made a further discovery —another gruesome find; '' I said, and then briefly I also related how we had found in that dusty, ..locked room at the end of the passage on tlie ground floor the telLtale stain upon the carpet, the lady 's sealskin muff, the purse, and the visiting cards bearing the naine of Ethel Farquhar —the young lady who lived on Wimbledon Common. "Ethel Farquhar!" .she gasped, when I mentioned the name. t ' Is—i«' she missingf" 14 Yes. Within five minutes, of the J discovery we learnt, by. tf&lepftori# from "j Scotland Yard that her mysterious dis- | appearance had already been reported : to them by her father. The stain upon j the carpet is that of blood! The house ! has, by this time, I expect, been taken ; possession of by the police."' > , j Ethel Farquhar," she repeated that < name twice as one dazed. j But at that same moment the sleep- ( ing car attendant hustled her into the j carriage, and scarce was I afforded suf- j ficient time to wish a hurried adieu j when the train moved off on its journey j north, and I was left standing there 1 watching its red tail-lamps disappear- j ing. I One thought held me breathless. j Would my well-beloved warn Koop of j our discovery? She alone knew at what address a secret message Would very • quickly find him. Would she afford himopportunity for escape? •' (To be continued to-morrow.)