“But the woman—the woman who met him by appointment in the park? She may be in his employ as spy.”
“Did Mason overhear anything that night when Sybil came to my room, I wonder,” I said.
“Never mind how they got to know,” he exclaimed. “I tell you that you mustn’t go near Tibbie. It’s far too dangerous at this moment.”
His words caused me considerable apprehension. How could I leave Sybil there alone? Would not Mrs Williams and her husband think it very strange? No. She had craved my assistance, and I had promised it. Therefore, at all risks I intended to fulfil my promise.
To allay Eric’s fears, however, I pretended to agree with him, and made him promise to still keep watch upon Winsloe. Eric was my guest whenever in London; therefore I ordered Budd to prepare his room, and after a snack over at the club we sat smoking and talking until far into the night.
Next morning my companion was early astir. He was in fear of Winsloe ascertaining the whereabouts of Sybil, and went forth to keep watch upon him, promising to return again that same evening. Winsloe had well-furnished rooms in King Street, St. James’s Square, was one of a go-ahead set of men about town, and a member of several of the gayest clubs frequented by the jeunesse dorée.
It was both risky and difficult for me to get down to Neate Street, Camberwell, in my dress as a printer; yet against Eric’s advice I succeeded, travelling by a circuitous route to South Bermondsey Station and along the Rotherhithe New Road, in reaching Mr Williams’ a little after eleven o’clock.
Sybil, looking fresh and neat, was eagerly awaiting me at the window, and when I entered the room she flew across to me, saying in a voice loud enough for the landlady to overhear,—
“Oh! Willie, how very late you are. Been working overtime, I suppose?”
“Yes, dear,” was my response; and we grinned at each other as we closed the door.