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Sign of Silence, The

<h2 class="gap3">CHAPTER XIII.</h2> <h3>THE FUGITIVE'S SECRET.</h3> Tenderly I placed my love upon the couch, and then rang the bell. In answer to my summons the young Italian man-servant appeared. "Send Mallock here quickly," I said. "Miss Shand is not well. But say nothing of this to your mistress, or to the other servants. You understand, Egisto?" "Cer-tainly, sare," replied the smart young Tuscan, and a few moments later the door re-opened to admit the thin-faced maid in black, wearing her muslin apron and gold-rimmed glasses. She dashed across to the couch in an instant, and bent, looking into the white, immobile face of my well-beloved. "I fear your mistress has fainted, Mallock, so I thought it best to call you. I have, unfortunately, imparted to her some news which has upset her. Will you please see after her?" "Of course, sir. I'll go and get some smelling salts and some water." And quickly the girl disappeared. Then, when she had gone, I stood before the inanimate form of the woman I loved so well, and wondered what could be the real, actual truth. Her admission had taken me aback. She had confessed to visiting my friend, but had alleged that he had compelled her. Was she actually beneath some mysterious thraldom—was she held in some secret bondage by the man I had trusted and who was my best friend? The very suspicion of it filled me with a fierce irresponsible anger, and I clenched my fists. Ah! I would find him and face him. I would clutch his throat and force the truth from his lips. And if he had betrayed me—if he had exercised any evil influence over Phrida—then, by heaven! I would take his life! Mallock bustled in the next moment, and sinking upon her knees began to apply restoratives. "Tell your mistress that I will return after luncheon, if she will see me," I said. "Yes, sir." "And—and tell her, Mallock, to remain calm until I see her. Will you?" "Yes, sir," answered the maid, and then I went out into the hall, struggled into my overcoat, and left the house. Out in Cromwell Road the scene, grey, dull and dismal, was, alas! in accord with my own feelings. The blow I had feared had fallen. The terrible suspicion I had held from that moment when, upon the stairs at Harrington Gardens, I had smelt that sweet, unusual perfume and heard the jingle of golden bangles, had been proved. She had actually admitted her presence there—with the man I had believed to be my friend, the man, whom, up to the present, I had sought to shield and protect! I hailed a taxi, and not knowing what I did, drove to the Reform. As I passed up the steps from Pall Mall the porter handed me my letters, and then, heedless of where my footsteps carried me, I entered the big, square hall and turned into the writing-room on the left—a room historic in the annals of British politics, for many a State secret had been discussed there by Ministers of the Crown, many a point of the Cabinet's policy had been decided, and also the fate of many a bill. The long, sombre room with the writing tables covered with blue cloth, was empty, as it usually is, and I flung myself down to scribble a note—an apology for not keeping an appointment that afternoon. My overburdened heart was full of chagrin and grief, for my idol had been shattered by a single blow, and only the wreck of all my hopes and aspirations now remained. In a week's time the coroner would hold his adjourned inquiry into the tragedy at Harrington Gardens, and then what startling revelations might be made! By that time it was probable that the police would be able to establish the identity of the accused, and, moreover, with Mrs. Petre vengeful and incensed against Phrida, might she not make a statement to the authorities? If so, what then? I sat with my elbows upon the table staring out into Pall Mall, which wore such a cold and cheerless aspect that morning. What could I do? How should I act? Ah! yes, at that moment I sat utterly bewildered, and trying in vain to discern some way out of that maze of mystery. I had not looked at the unopened letters beneath my hand, but suddenly chancing to glance at them, I noticed one in an unfamiliar feminine handwriting. I tore it open carelessly, expecting to find some invitation or other, when, within, I found three hastily scrawled lines written on the notepaper of the Great Eastern Hotel at Liverpool Street. It read: <div class="blockquot">"Since I saw you something has happened. Can you meet me again as soon as possible? Please wire me, Mrs. Petre, Melbourne House, Colchester." </div> I gazed at the note in extreme satisfaction. At least, I had the woman's address. Yes, after I had again seen Phrida I would see her and force from her lips the truth. I rose quickly, placed the other letters in my pocket without opening them, and drove down to the City, where I was compelled to keep a business appointment. At half-past three Egisto admitted me to Mrs. Shand's, and in reply to my question, told me that the "Signorina," as he always called Phrida, was in the morning-room. Dressed in a pale grey gown, relieved with lace at the collar and wrists, she rose slowly from a big armchair as I entered, and came across to me, her face pale, drawn, and anxious. "Ah! dearest," I cried. "I'm glad to see you better. Are you quite yourself again now?" "Quite, thanks," was her low, rather weak reply. "I—I felt very unwell this morning. I—I don't know what was the matter." Then clinging to me suddenly, she added, "Ah! forgive me, Teddy, won't you?" "There is nothing to forgive, dear," was my reply, as, placing my arm tenderly about her slim waist, I looked into the depths of those wonderful dark eyes of hers, trying to fathom what secret lay hidden there. "Ah!" she ejaculated. "I know, dear, that though you affect to have forgiven me—that you have not. How could you possibly forgive?" "I am not angry with you in the least, Phrida!" I assured her quite calmly. "Because you have not yet told me the truth. I am here to learn it." "Yes," she gasped, sinking into a chair and staring straight into the fire. The short winter's day was dying, and already the light had nearly faded. But the fire threw a mellow glow upon her pale, hard-set features, and she presented a strangely dramatic picture as she sat there with head bent in shame. "Ah! yes. You are here again to torture me, I suppose," she sighed bitterly. "I have no desire in the least to torture you," I said, standing erect before her. "But I certainly think that some explanation of your conduct is due to me—the man whom you are to marry." "Marry!" she echoed in a blank voice, with a shrug of her shoulders, her eyes still fixed upon the fire. "Yes, marry," I repeated. "You made an admission to me this morning—one of which any man would in such circumstances demand explanation. You said that my friend had forced you to go to Harrington Gardens. Tell me why? What power does that man hold over you?" "Ah, no! Teddy!" she cried, starting wildly to her feet. "No, no!" she protested, grasping my hands frantically. "Don't ask that question. Spare me that! Spare me that, for the sake of the love you once bore for me." "No. I repeat my question," I said slowly, but very determinedly. "Ah! no. I—I can't answer it. I——" For a few moments a silence fell between us. Then I said in a low, meaning tone: "You can't answer it, Phrida, because you are ashamed, eh?" She sprang upon me in an instant, her face full of resentful fire. "No!" she declared vehemently. "I am not ashamed—only I—I cannot tell you the reason I went to Harrington Gardens. That's all." "Yours is, to say the least, a rather thin excuse, is it not?" I asked. "What else can I say? Simply I can tell you nothing." "But you admit that you went to Harrington Gardens. Did you go more than once?" I asked very quietly. She nodded in the affirmative. "And the last occasion was on the night when my friend was forced to fly, eh?" I suggested. I saw that she was about to elude answering my question. Therefore, I added: "I already know you were there. I have established your presence beyond the shadow of doubt. So you may just as well admit it." "I—I do," she faltered, sinking again into her chair and resting her elbows upon her knees. "You were there—you were present when the crime was committed," I said, looking straight at her as I stood before her with folded arms. "Whoever has said that tells wicked lies," was her quick response. "You were in Digby's room that night—after I left," I declared. "How do you know." "Because the police have photographs of your finger-prints," was my quiet reply. The effect of my words upon her was electrical. "The police!" she gasped, her face instantly pale as death. "Do they know?" "Inspector Edwards is in possession of your finger-prints," I replied briefly. "Then—then they will suspect me!" she shrieked in despair. "Ah! Teddy! If you love me, save me!" And she flung herself wildly at my feet, clutching my hands and raising her face to mine in frantic appeal. "For that very reason I have returned here to you to-day, Phrida," I replied in a low tone of sympathy. "If I can save you from being implicated in this terrible affair, I will. But you must tell me the whole truth from the start. Then I may be able to devise a plan to ensure your security." And I slowly assisted her to her feet and led her back to her chair. She sat without moving or speaking for some moments, gravely thinking. Then of a sudden, she said in a hard, hoarse voice: "Ah! you don't know, Teddy, what I have suffered—how I have been the innocent victim of a foul and dastardly plot. I—I was entrapped—I——" "Entrapped!" I echoed. "By whom? Not by Digby Kemsley? He was not the sort of man." "He is your friend, I know. But if you knew the truth you would hate him—hate him, with as deep and fierce a hatred as I do now," she declared, with a strange look in her great eyes. "You told me he had forced you to go to his flat." "He did." "Why?" "Because he wanted to tell me something—to——" "To tell you what?" "I refuse to explain—I can't tell you, Teddy." "Because it would be betraying his secret—eh?" I remarked with bitterness. "And, yet, in the same breath you have told me you hate him. Surely, this attitude of yours is an unusual one—is it not? You cannot hate him and strive to shield him at the same moment!" She paused for a second before replying. Then she said: "I admit that my attitude towards your friend is a somewhat strange one, but there are reasons—strong, personal reasons of my own—which prevent me revealing to you the whole of what is a strange and ghastly story. Surely it will suffice you to know that I did not conceal all knowledge of your friend and call upon him in secret all of my own free will. No, Teddy, I loved you—and I still love you, dear—far too well for that." "I trusted you, Phrida, but you deceived me," I replied, with a poignant bitterness in my heart. "Under compulsion. Because——" and she paused with a look of terror in her eyes. "Because what?" I asked slowly, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder. She shrank from contact with me. "No. I—I can't tell you. It—it's all too terrible, too horrible!" she whispered hoarsely, covering her white face with her hands. "I loved you, but, alas! all my happiness, all the joy of which I have so long dreamed, has slipped away from me because of the one false step—my one foolish action—of which I have so long repented." "Tell me, Phrida," I urged, in deep earnestness, bending down to her. "Confide in me." "No," she replied, with an air of determination. "It is my own affair. I have acted foolishly and must bear the consequences." "But surely you will not sacrifice our love rather than tell me the truth!" I cried. Hot tears welled in her eyes, and I felt her frail form tremble beneath my touch. "Alas! I am compelled," she faltered. "Then you refuse to tell me—you refuse to explain why this man whom I believed to be my friend, and to whom I have rendered many services, has held you in his thraldom?" I exclaimed bitterly. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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