Those men held her to them by threats of exposure. She had enticed that unknown man to his death, and was therefore an accessory. The hideous truth was plain. She was the puppet and decoy of these scoundrels. She had decoyed me on that night when she had taken me to Blackheath, but at the last moment her better nature had rebelled and she had sent me back without any explanation more than a lame excuse.
I saw how utterly helpless she was in the hands of that pair of assassins. When I questioned her I found that the sum Purvis allowed her was very small, and that long before the death of her Aunt Lewis she had earned her own living as a typewriter.
By dint of careful questioning I endeavoured to obtain from her some facts regarding Purvis’ private life, but she appeared to know but little of it. He now lived at Hammersmith, she said, but she never visited his house unless at his orders, and then the motive was generally in connexion with their scheme to gain possession of the treasure.
It is always advantageous to have a friend in the camp of the enemy, and in this case what Dorothy Drummond told me ultimately proved of the greatest service to us.
I longed to explain the knowledge I possessed regarding the murder at Kilburn, yet how could I? If she suspected that I knew the truth she would, in her present agitated state of mind, flee from me in terror lest I should betray her.
“Cannot you sever yourself entirely from these men?” I suggested. “Indeed, Miss Drummond, I hate to think of you participating in the desperate schemes of such adventurers. Suppose they should fall into the hands of the police, you also may be implicated!”
She burst into a torrent of tears at my words and, halting, covered her face with her hands. Tenderly I strove to console her, and placing my hand upon her shoulder, there in the darkness, I bent to her ear and in hot, fervent words told her my secret—that I loved her.
She heard me in silence, sobbing till the end. Then, in a hoarse, broken voice, she answered: —
“No. It is impossible! You must not tell me this—you must not entertain any affection for me.”
“Why not, Dorothy?” I asked, calling her for the first time by her Christian name. “Have I not confessed to you how I love you with all the passion of which a man is capable? For weeks and weeks you have been my all in all. Waking or sleeping, your face has been ever before me, and I feel by a mysterious intuition that our lives in future are bound to one another.”