The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage ”...to give credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totally unfounded...” and another, ”...I look to you as my friend to preserve the reputation of a defenceless woman...” The name “Markwick” occurred several times, and once it was “that vile, despicable coward, Markwick.”
“That vile, despicable coward, Markwick,” I repeated aloud. I reflected deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature upon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.
One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were ”...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I...”
“Great Heaven!” I cried aloud, “the writing is Sybil’s!” I recognised the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack’s possession! Even these half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we were happy in each other’s love.
At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the postrnark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of notepaper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following words—“Tuesday—Dear Sir,—Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08 on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter, and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her, kindly telegraph to me personally.—Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe.”
Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was “her ladyship?” Was it old Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady’s maid, and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by means of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this would necessarily occupy time.
I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton’s maid, Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel’s was a French girl, named Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet, unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there, and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack’s correspondent, showed that “her ladyship,” whoever she was, took every precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman’s lover? Was he playing a double game?
I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.
“Proof,” I murmured aloud. “What greater proof can I have than the evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?”
I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a portion of Sybil’s letter. Apparently a secret had existed between them.