I know that I may rely on your secrecy, so I’ll relate the whole facts. About three o’clock this afternoon I left the others to try the turnips around Charlton Wood, and while walking on the edge of the thickets that fringe the forest I thought I heard voices. I have a quick ear for sound, you know. Well, wondering who might be there, I resorted to an old trick taught me by the African natives, and leaving my gun, crept in through the undergrowth without stirring a leaf until I was close to the strangers. Then parting the branches I saw to my utter amazement, Tibbie standing there with a man – a tallish fellow in a dark suit.”
“Tibbie!” I gasped. “With a man – in the wood?”
“Yes,” said my friend. “And mere. I overheard some of their conversation. The fellow looked to me like some farmer’s lout, yet he spoke with an air of refinement – he spoke to her, Wilfrid – as her lover!”
“Her lover!” I echoed, bewildered. Then the strange rumour I had heard had actually some foundation! The Honourable Sybil Burnet, one of the smartest women in London, was in the habit of meeting a lover in secret. I held my breath, utterly confounded.
“Well,” I asked, stunned by the revelation, “and what else – what else did you see?”
“Imagine my utter surprise, my dear old chap, to witness Tibbie – our own Tibbie – allowing the fellow to kiss her! And yet she did, without repelling him. She stood and heard him to the end. He told her that he loved her and that he intended to marry her, whatever the world might say. ‘You are mine, Miss Sybil – mine – mine!’ he kept on repeating, while she stood, allowing him to take her in his arms, and kiss her passionately. Who the fellow is I don’t know. I’m only certain that for some reason she’s in deadly fear of him.”
“Why?” I asked, eagerly.
“Because a lady would surely never allow herself to be caressed by such a rank outsider. Why, my dear old chap, he seemed to be a mere shabby wayfarer with down-at-heel boots, and an old dusty suit. At last, after a quarter of an hour, during which time I learned that he had loved her in secret for two years, she suddenly pushed him from her, and spoke quite seriously, saying, ‘All this is entirely useless, my dear Charles. I may as well tell you the truth at once, and end this folly for ever. I am engaged to Mr Winsloe!’ In an instant the fellow’s affection turned to an ungovernable fury. He raved and threatened, declaring that she was his, and no one else’s, and that she should never marry Winsloe. At all this, however, Tibbie only laughed defiantly, apparently treating his words as mere empty threats, until of a sudden he took her roughly by the shoulders, and glaring into her face said, ‘Sybil! You will marry me, or I will tell the world the truth! You know what I mean. I’m not to be trifled with. Decide.’ Then occurred a terrible scene between them. She openly accused him of attempting to blackmail her, while he, on his part, reiterated his love, declaring that while he lived she should never marry another. I would have gone forward to protect her, but how could I? By so doing I should only have acknowledged myself as a mean eavesdropper. Therefore, overhearing that which I had no desire to hear, I turned and crept back into the field as noiselessly as I came. Then,” and he lowered his voice, and speaking slowly, “then five minutes later, as I was making my way back to the party I heard a shot from the wood – a revolver shot I knew by the sound. But I went on in wonder and fear. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was just four o’clock.”
“And at a little after half-past she was with me in the Long Gallery. Perhaps the fellow fired at her?” I suggested, staring at him.
“Or she at him?” Eric said in a low, very hard tone. “Recollect this ruffian is a lover, and moreover is in possession of some secret which she fears may be revealed. I saw a revolver in her hand, Wilfrid,” he added hoarsely. “She threatened him with it. And she shot him! What can we do to save her?”
Scarcely had he whispered this serious question when Rainer, the under-butler, entered to inquire if we desired anything further, and on my replying in the negative, the man said, —
“There’s been a terrible affair up in Charlton Wood, sir, John Harris, the keeper, on going his round to-night found a man shot dead. They sent down to the house to telephone to the doctor half-an-hour ago.”
“Who’s the man?” I gasped, springing up at the servant’s startling declaration, while Eric stood rigid.
“Nobody knows. They haven’t brought him down to the village yet.”
Eric and I exchanged glances. But we were silent – and our silence was surely more expressive than words.
Chapter Three.
Describes a Man and a Mystery
“It’s probably some poor beggar who’s committed suicide,” I remarked, in order to allay Rainer’s suspicions, if he had noticed the change in our countenances when he made his startling announcement.
“He’s badly-dressed, Harris says. Perhaps he’s a tramp,” remarked the servant.
“Perhaps so. We want nothing more, Rainer, to-night,” I added.
“Very good, sir,” and the man bowed and withdrew, closing the door after him.
“What shall we do?” whispered Eric, quickly, his face pale beneath the sun-tan.
I stood staring at my friend, unable to utter a word.
Was that Sybil’s secret – the secret that she had been so very near revealing to me? I recollected those strange words of hers, “You would hate me!” Yes, her secret was a guilty one.
“Do?” I echoed at last in a low whisper, fearing Rainer might be listening. “Why, we must make our own inquiries before those local busybodies of police step in and bungle the affair. She must be saved – don’t you agree?”
“Yes. At all costs we must save her,” he cried quickly. “Let’s go out and see who the fellow is.”
“Not yet. Wait for half an hour or so, until they’re all gone to bed. The servants’ hall is all in a flutter, it seems, and the maids will be about frightened and whispering. If we are to get away unseen we must slip out of yonder window. All the doors are closed now, and the dogs are loose in the courtyard.”
“You’re right, old fellow. We must wait a bit,” he agreed. “But what’s your private opinion of the affair?”
“I have none,” was my blank reply. “Until I have some proof, I suspect nobody.”
“Quite so. Let’s leave Tibbie entirely out of the question. Remember, not a word to anyone of what I’ve told you, for I’m the principal witness against her. Think, if they called me. My evidence would condemn her!”
“I regard all that you’ve told me, Eric, as unsaid,” I responded. “Tibbie is my friend.”
“But you don’t think I’ve lied, do you?” he asked quickly, not grasping my meaning.
“Of course not. Why should you? We know each other too well to make false charges against our friends,” I answered. “It is a mystery – a complete mystery.”
“Absolutely. I was struck dumb when I discovered her in the arms of the fellow. I couldn’t really believe my own eyes.” Then, after a pause, he asked in a lower tone, “What secret of hers did he hold, I wonder?”
“Ah! what indeed.”
“To
