A woman's debt

by William Le Queux

They did not meet again for a month, and when they did, Miss Buckley’s manner was very grave and constrained. Her friend, who knew her moods so well, surmised at once she had got something on her mind.

“Why are you looking so woebegone, Alma?” she questioned at length when she noticed that her friend’s gloom seemed deepened rather than lightened in spite of the efforts of both to keep the ball of conversation rolling.

It was some time before Alma spoke; when she did she rushed out her words with a sort of nervous impetuosity. “You’ll have to know it sooner or later, Lettice; I may as well tell you and get it over. It all arose from my making an idiot of myself on that fatal night, when I let out the name of Darcy and the truth about Jack’s father. I’ve told you that Sir George was always very curious about him.”

It was now Mrs. Morrice’s turn to look grave. She felt instinctively that something portentous had happened.

Alma went on in her quick, nervous way: “Sir George was round at my place a couple of days ago, and after we had talked a little on casual subjects, a queer sort of smile came over his face, and he came out with it all. I hate to tell you, Lettice, but you must know. He has found out all about you, how I cannot guess; I begin to think, much as I like him, he is a dangerous man, and that there is about him something—how shall I describe it—just a little bit sinister. He knows all about the trial and sentence; that you and Darcy were married in France; and that you are now the wife of Rupert Morrice. I cannot say how wretched and miserable I am about it. When he left, I felt as if I should like to go and drown myself, but that wouldn’t do any good.”

It was a terrible shock to Mrs. Morrice that her carefully-guarded secret should be known to anybody beyond themselves. She tried to take an optimistic view of the situation. Sir George had been wild in his youth like his two brothers, but he was a gentleman by birth and breeding, he would never take advantage of his knowledge. And yet—and yet, why had he taken the trouble to find it all out? It must have required considerable time and patience, and does any man spend the one and exercise the other without some adequate motive? And how was it possible that he should get the information after all these years?

When Mrs. Morrice came to this point in her narrative, Lane made no comment. But, recollecting what he had learned from MacKenzie, he guessed how easily the baronet had been able to go about his researches. Sir George was known to be an associate of “crooks” at the present time, crooks of the high-class variety; no doubt he had associated with them for many years past. Even if he had not known Darcy personally, the name would be a familiar one in the criminal world, and everything about him was known to those who belonged to it.

It was probable that he had at first embarked upon his researches out of a mere spirit of curiosity, scenting some mystery about Alma Buckley’s connection with the youngster, and being desirous of unravelling it. In doing so, he had stumbled upon a secret of considerable value to an unscrupulous man. Lettice Darcy, the widow of a criminal, had married a wealthy and eminent financier of high standing and integrity, absolutely ignorant of his wife’s past, for it was not to be presumed that any man in his senses would unite himself to a woman with such a record. Such a secret ought to be worth a good deal to him.

He was not long in unmasking his batteries. He and Mrs. Morrice had a few common acquaintances at whose houses they had often been guests at the same time. But they had never exchanged a word together. She, knowing who he was, at once identified him as the brother of the man who had figured in that disagreeable incident at the Brinkstone Arms, but he had not appeared to recognize her. She had been rather glad of this, as she was anxious to consign the past, her girlhood included, to oblivion.

A week after that disturbing interview with Miss Buckley, she was a guest at an evening function at a well-known house in Piccadilly, with Rosabelle Sheldon; her husband had not accompanied them, he was dining at the club with a brother financier to discuss one of his big schemes.