“Tibbie!” I gasped. “With a man—in the wood?”
“Yes,” said my friend. “And mere. I overheard some of their conversation. The fellow looked to me like some farmer’s lout, yet he spoke with an air of refinement—he spoke to her, Wilfrid—as her lover!”
“Her lover!” I echoed, bewildered. Then the strange rumour I had heard had actually some foundation! The Honourable Sybil Burnet, one of the smartest women in London, was in the habit of meeting a lover in secret. I held my breath, utterly confounded.
“Well,” I asked, stunned by the revelation, “and what else—what else did you see?”
“Imagine my utter surprise, my dear old chap, to witness Tibbie—our own Tibbie—allowing the fellow to kiss her! And yet she did, without repelling him. She stood and heard him to the end. He told her that he loved her and that he intended to marry her, whatever the world might say. ‘You are mine, Miss Sybil—mine—mine!’ he kept on repeating, while she stood, allowing him to take her in his arms, and kiss her passionately. Who the fellow is I don’t know. I’m only certain that for some reason she’s in deadly fear of him.”
“Why?” I asked, eagerly.
“Because a lady would surely never allow herself to be caressed by such a rank outsider. Why, my dear old chap, he seemed to be a mere shabby wayfarer with down-at-heel boots, and an old dusty suit. At last, after a quarter of an hour, during which time I learned that he had loved her in secret for two years, she suddenly pushed him from her, and spoke quite seriously, saying, ‘All this is entirely useless, my dear Charles. I may as well tell you the truth at once, and end this folly for ever. I am engaged to Mr Winsloe!’ In an instant the fellow’s affection turned to an ungovernable fury. He raved and threatened, declaring that she was his, and no one else’s, and that she should never marry Winsloe. At all this, however, Tibbie only laughed defiantly, apparently treating his words as mere empty threats, until of a sudden he took her roughly by the shoulders, and glaring into her face said, ‘Sybil! You will marry me, or I will tell the world the truth! You know what I mean. I’m not to be trifled with. Decide.’ Then occurred a terrible scene between them. She openly accused him of attempting to blackmail her, while he, on his part, reiterated his love, declaring that while he lived she should never marry another. I would have gone forward to protect her, but how could I? By so doing I should only have acknowledged myself as a mean eavesdropper. Therefore, overhearing that which I had no desire to hear, I turned and crept back into the field as noiselessly as I came. Then,” and he lowered his voice, and speaking slowly, “then five minutes later, as I was making my way back to the party I heard a shot from the wood—a revolver shot I knew by the sound. But I went on in wonder and fear. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was just four o’clock.”
“And at a little after half-past she was with me in the Long Gallery. Perhaps the fellow fired at her?” I suggested, staring at him.
“Or she at him?” Eric said in a low, very hard tone. “Recollect this ruffian is a lover, and moreover is in possession of some secret which she fears may be revealed. I saw a revolver in her hand, Wilfrid,” he added hoarsely. “She threatened him with it. And she shot him! What can we do to save her?”
Scarcely had he whispered this serious question when Rainer, the under-butler, entered to inquire if we desired anything further, and on my replying in the negative, the man said,—