The Sign of Silence Part 46

She drew a deep sigh, and with an effort repressed the tears welling in her deep-set, haunted eyes.

"Yes," she faltered in her emotion. "Perhaps I had better. I--I cannot bear this strain much longer. You told me that the police did not suspect me, but--but, now I know they do. A man has been watching outside the house all day for two days past. Yes," she sobbed, "they will come, come to arrest me, but they will only find that--that I've cheated them!"

"They will not come," I answered her. "I happen to know more than I can tell you, Phrida," I whispered. "You need have no fear of arrest."

"But that woman Petre! She may denounce me--she will, I know!"

"They take no notice of such allegations at Scotland Yard. They receive too much wild correspondence," I declared. "No, dearest, go to bed and rest--rest quite a.s.sured that at present you are in no peril, and, further, that every hour which elapses brings us nearer a solution of the tragic and tantalising problem. May I ring for Mallock?" I asked, again kissing her pa.s.sionately upon those lips, hard and cold as marble, my heart full of sympathy for her in her tragic despair.

"Yes," she responded faintly in a voice so low that I could hardly catch it. So I crossed and rang the bell for her maid.

Then, when she had kissed me good-night, looking into my eyes with a strange expression of wistfulness, and left the room, I dashed across to that little table whereon the ivory-hilted knife was lying and seized the important piece of evidence, so that it might not fall into Edwards'

hands.

I held it within my fingers, and taking it across to the fireplace, examined it in the strong light. The ivory was yellow and old, carved with the escutcheon bearing the three b.a.l.l.s, the arms of the great House of Medici. The blade, about seven inches long, was keen, triangular, and, at the point, sharp as a needle. Into it the rust of centuries had eaten, though in parts it was quite bright, evidently due to recent cleaning.

I was examining it for any stains that might be upon it--stains of the life-blood of Marie Bracq. But I could find none. No. They had been carefully removed, yet chemical a.n.a.lysis would, without doubt, reveal inevitable traces of the ghastly truth.

I had my back to the door, and was still holding the deadly weapon in my hand, scrutinising it closely, when I heard a slight movement behind me, and turning, confronted Phrida, standing erect and rigid, like a statue.

Her face was white as death, her thin hands clenched, her haunted eyes fixed upon me.

"Ah! I see!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely. "You know--eh? You _know_!"

"No. I do not _know_, Phrida," was my deep reply, as I s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand and held it in my own. "I only surmise that this knife was used on that fatal night, because of the unusual shape of its blade--because of the medical evidence that by such a knife Marie Bracq was killed."

She drew a deep breath.

"And you are taking it as evidence--against me!"

"Evidence against you, darling!" I echoed in reproach. "Do you think that I, the man who loves you, is endeavouring to convict you of a crime? No.

Leave matters to me. I am your friend--not your enemy!"

A silence fell between us. She neither answered nor did she move for some moments. Then she said in a deep wistful tone:

"Ah! if I could only believe that you are!"

"But I am," I declared vehemently. "I love you, Phrida, with all my soul, and I will never believe ill of you--never, never!"

"How can you do otherwise in these terrible circ.u.mstances?" she queried, with a strange contraction of her brows.

"I love you, and because I love you so dearly--because you are all the world to me," I said, pressing her to my heart, "I will never accept what an enemy may allege--never, until you are permitted to relate your own story."

I still held the weapon in my hand, and I saw that her eyes wandered to it.

"Ah! Teddy!" she cried, with sudden emotion. "How can I thank you sufficiently for those words? Take that horrible thing and hide it--hide it anywhere from my eyes, for sight of it brings all the past back to me.

Yet--yet I was afraid," she went on, "I dare not hide it, lest any one should ask what had become of it, and thus suspicions might be aroused.

Ah! every time I have come into this room it has haunted me--I seem to see that terrible scene before my eyes--how--how they----"

But she broke off short, and covering her face with both hands added, after a few seconds' silence:

"Ah! yes, take it away--never let me gaze upon it again. But I beg of you, dear, to--to preserve my secret--my terrible secret!"

And she burst into tears.

"Not a single word shall pa.s.s my lips, neither shall a single soul see this knife. I will take it and cast it away--better to the bottom of the Thames. To-night it shall be in a place where it can never be found. So go to your room, and rest a.s.sured that you, darling, have at least one friend--myself."

I felt her breast heave and fall as I held her in my strong embrace.

Then without words she raised her white, tear-stained face and kissed me long and fondly; afterwards she left me, and in silence tottered from the room, closing the door after her.

I still held the knife in my hand--the weapon by which the terrible deed had been perpetrated.

What could I think? What would you, my reader, have thought if the woman you love stood in the same position as Phrida Shand--which G.o.d forbid?

I stood reflecting, gazing upon the antique poignard. Then slowly and deliberately I made up my mind, and placing the unsheathed knife in my breast pocket I went out into the hall, put on my coat and hat, and left the house.

Half an hour later I halted casually upon Westminster Bridge, and when no one was near, cast the ancient "Misericordia" into the dark flowing waters of the river, knowing that Edwards and his inquisitive a.s.sistants could never recover it as evidence against my love.

Four days later I received a letter from Fremy, dated from the Hotel National at Strasbourg, stating that he had traced the fugitives from Munich to the latter city, but there he had lost all trace of them. He believed they had gone to Paris, and with his chief's permission he was leaving for the French capital that night.

Weeks pa.s.sed--weeks of terror and apprehension for my love, and of keenest anxiety for myself.

The month of May went by, spring with all her beauties appeared in the parks and faded in the heat and dust, while the London season commenced.

Men who were otherwise never seen in town, strolled up and down St.

James's Street and Piccadilly, smart women rode in the Row in the morning and gave parties at night, while the usual crop of charitable functions, society scandals, Parliamentary debates, and puff-paragraphs in the papers about Lady n.o.body's dances showed the gay world of London to be in full swing.

My mantelshelf was well decorated with cards of invitation, for, nowadays, the bachelor in London can have a really good time if he chooses, yet I accepted few, spending most of my days immersed in business--in order to occupy my thoughts--while my evenings I spent at Cromwell Road.

For weeks Phrida had not referred to the tragedy in any way, and I had been extremely careful to avoid the subject. Yet, from her pale, drawn countenance--so unlike her former self--I knew how recollection of it ever haunted her, and what dread terror had gripped her young heart.

Mrs. Shand, ignorant of the truth, had many times expressed to me confidentially, fear that her daughter was falling into a bad state of health; and, against Phrida's wishes, had called in the family doctor, who, likewise ignorant, had ordered her abroad.

"Get her out of the dullness of this road, Mrs. Shand," he had said. "She wants change and excitement. Take her to some gay place on the Continent--Dinard, Trouville, Aix-les-Bains, Ostend--some place where there is brightness and movement. A few weeks there will effect a great change in her, I'm certain."

But Phrida refused to leave London, though I begged her to follow the doctor's advice, and even offered to accompany them.

As far as I could gather, Van Huffel, in Brussels, had given up the search for the fugitives; though, the more I reflected upon his replies to my questions as to the real ident.i.ty of Marie Bracq, the more remarkable they seemed.

Who was she? That was the great problem uppermost always in my mind.

Phrida had declared that she only knew her by that name--that she knew nothing further concerning her. And so frankly had she said this, that I believed her.

Yet I argued that, if the death of Marie Bracq was of such serious moment as the _Chef du Surete_ had declared, then he surely would not allow the inquiry to drop without making the most strenuous efforts to arrest those suspected of the crime.

But were his suspicions, too, directed towards Phrida? Had he, I wondered, been in consultation with Edwards, and had the latter, in confidence, revealed to him his own theory?

I held my breath each time that idea crossed my mind--as it did so very often.

From Fremy I had had several letters dated from the Prefecture of Police, Brussels, but the tenor of all was the same--nothing to report.