Whatsoever a Man Soweth Part 11

Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fully convinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Was he, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?

Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters of Sybil's, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts, and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe by sight of the victim.

As we left the barn I walked by his side.

"A queer affair, isn't it?" I remarked. "Strange that a man could be murdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and n.o.body hear the shot!"

"But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember," he said quickly. "The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect."

"I wonder who he is?" I exclaimed.

"Ah! I wonder," he said. "He walked a long way, evidently. He's probably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with his companion--who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him."

"It will be interesting to see if they discover anything," I said, glancing at him at the same instant.

"Yes," he said, "it will," and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe, who was walking at Booth's side.

Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others, who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazed upon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.

Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved to wait and to watch.

Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strange affair. Jack advanced more than one theory.

"Charlton Wood doesn't lead to anywhere," he pointed out. "Therefore the dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to his death," he added. "There may have been two or more a.s.sa.s.sins."

"No, I rather disagree," said Wydcombe. "If there had been a plot to kill him they wouldn't have risked firing a revolver, as it would attract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was not a premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badly worn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. It was as soft as a woman's."

"But you surely don't believe that he was a gentleman, do you?" asked Winsloe. "To me the fellow was more like a tramp."

"I hardly know what to think, Ellice," was his lords.h.i.+p's reply as he lit a cigarette. "It's a mystery, and that's all one can say. Whoever killed him was a confoundedly good shot."

"You don't think it was suicide?" Winsloe asked slowly, looking the speaker straight in the face.

"Suicide! Of course not. Why don't you hear? They haven't found a revolver."

And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.

When we had all a.s.sembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone being absent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly,--

"Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the car early this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Did anybody hear the car go off?" she inquired, looking around the table.

But all expressed surprise at Tibbie's absence, and of course n.o.body had heard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked.

Whereupon her ladys.h.i.+p merely replied,--

"I'm sure I can't tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribbled note at nine o'clock this morning, saying that she had found it in her room. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn't sleep she had got up and gone out with Mason. `Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,' she says, `but if I am not, please don't worry after me. I shall be all right and will write.'"

"Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps," remarked Jack. "She said something about running down there a few days ago."

"But it isn't proper for a young girl tearing about the country by herself and driving her own car," protested the old lady. "She knows that I most strongly disapprove of it."

"And therefore does it all the more," laughed the man who had identified the victim in Charlton Wood.

"Tibbie is really quite incorrigible."

"Quite, Mr Winsloe," declared her ladys.h.i.+p. "My only fear is that one day something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is, I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She'll come to grief some day--depend upon it!"

Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word of reply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?

But the others were chattering gaily, and next moment he turned from me and joined in their merry gossip.

That afternoon I remained at home, but he drove out with two ladies of the party to make a call on some people about five miles away.

After he had gone Eric returned, and I told him all that I had seen, and of my suspicions.

He stood at the end of the grey old terrace, and heard me through to the end, then said,--

"This puts an entirely new complexion upon matters, old fellow. You suspect him of knowing something. If so, then we must act at once, and fearlessly--just as we did last night."

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"He's out. Therefore we must go to his room and see whether he has anything there--any letters, for instance. To me, it seems plain that he was in expectation of the tragedy, and that he fears lest the dead man should be identified."

"Then your suggestion is to search his belongings?"

"Certainly. Let's go up there. There's no time to lose. He may be back at any moment."

And so we crossed the great hall and quickly ascended to his room unseen by the servants. Then after looking rapidly through the drawers we found that one of Eric's keys fitted the strong brown kitbag at the foot of the bed.

In a moment it was open, and a few seconds later its contents were out upon the floor.

Among them we saw something lying which caused us to stare blankly at each other in utter amazement. The sight of it staggered us completely.

Again the mystery was still further increased. It was inexplicable.

I recognised my own grave peril if I dared to carry out Tibbie's bold and astounding suggestion.

CHAPTER NINE.

STRICTLY IN SECRET.

Thursday night was wet and dismal in London as I stood outside the underground railway station at King's Cross at eight o'clock, keeping my appointment with the Honourable Sybil.

There was a good deal of traffic and bustle in the Pentonville Road; the shops were still open, and the working-cla.s.s population, notwithstanding the rain, were out with their baskets, making their purchases after their day's labour.

At that spot in the evening one sees a veritable panorama of London life, its humours and its tragedies, for there five of the great arteries of traffic converge, while every two minutes the subterranean railway belches forth its hurrying, breathless crowds to swell the number of pa.s.sers-by.

The station front towards the King's Cross Road is somewhat in the shadow, and there I stood in patience and in wonder.

What Eric and had discovered in Winsloe's kitbag had rendered the mystery the more tantalising, it being a cheap carte-de-visite photograph of the dead stranger--a picture which showed him in a dark tweed suit and golf-cap stuck slightly askew, as many young men of the working-cla.s.s wear their caps.