Chapter XXII: The Double Life

How long I stood there I cannot tell.

Once I was on the point of rushing after her and demanding to know the truth concerning that young stranger of the previous night: the man who had apparently brought some false charge against me. But I restrained myself, for I saw that the meeting had been arranged purposely to break off our secret engagement.

Such an issue as this I had never dreamed. So implicitly had I trusted her that it had never, for one moment, crossed my mind that she could play me false. But now, as I stood there in the falling London dusk, the distant roar of traffic sounding away behind the trees, a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon me; that soul-killing loneliness that the broken-hearted can feel even in the midst of the hurry and bustle of our great Metropolis.

She was a stage-woman--a variety artiste. All that I had read regarding such people crowded up in my mind; how their enemies said, for a woman to make sufficient to live upon was an utter impossibility if she still wished to retain her self-respect. I remembered the denunciation of my late brother-journalist, Clement Scott, whom I so often used to meet, and who said, "No woman can succeed on the stage without sacrificing her honour." I recollected what a storm of abuse was hurled upon him because he had dared to state this opinion, and it now became forced upon me how the public--the respectable suburban audiences who go to the theatres and music-halls--close their eyes to what is so palpably placed before them. Until that moment of my bitter awakening, I, like all the others, had closed my eyes and endeavoured to believe the stage an eminently respectable profession. Yet the truth did not admit of argument. To-day, with the decadence of the legitimate drama, and the rapid advancement of variety shows and so-called musical comedy, our stages are not trodden by actresses or singers, but in many cases by women who flaunt their meretricious charms with impunity and parade the stage for the advancement of their own ends. Perhaps my views were embittered by the thought of my beloved's conduct to me.

Had not Daisy deceived me all along? Had I not been fooled by her pretty speeches and her feigned modesty? Was it possible for a young girl like her, with beautiful countenance, pretty hair, and good figure, to have made such rapid strides legitimately in a profession already over-crowded? Before my eyes arose a vision of her as I so often saw her, a vision of neat silk stocking, dainty lingerie, low-cut black bodice trimmed with carnations and glittering with silver spangles, as she danced and sang before her hundreds of admirers. Her illuminated number appearing always caused an outburst of applause, for she was already a popular favourite, whose face laughed at you from the big boards outside the hall whereat she was appearing, and whose song, "The Motor Maid," was being whistled by every errand-boy and being played by every barrel-organ in the suburbs.

Yet, recollecting all that I had seen, heard, and read regarding the stage, of which, as a journalist, I possessed inside knowledge, how could I help in the present circumstances regarding her with suspicion?

I had been fooled. She had carried the joke to a point where it could not be carried further. The well-dressed young club-lounger of the previous night--the man with whom she had sat in the Gambrinus, laughing and talking so merrily--was, I felt convinced, her lover.

I clenched my hands, and an angry imprecation escaped my lips. I hated that man, for he was my most bitter enemy. He had stolen her from me.

"No!" I cried aloud, still standing at the spot where my love had left me. "No! I will not think ill of her. I have no proof. I love her, and while I love her I will not allow this horrible suspicion to enter my heart. I have believed her to be pure and honourable, believed that she was the exception to all other women, and I will still retain my good opinion of her. These thoughts shall not cause me to prejudge her. It would be cruel and unjust to thus condemn the woman I love so devotedly. All this to-day is a misunderstanding--a misunderstanding caused by some infernal plot formed by my secret enemy. She did love me, I am confident of that. And she shall return to me when I have discovered the truth of this extraordinary conspiracy to place suspicion upon me of that mysterious crime."

I paused, glancing in the direction she had taken. I was alone; no one had passed.

"No, Daisy!" I cried bitterly, aloud. "Though to-day you have forsaken me in favour of that man, you little dream who or what he is. You are his victim, like myself, and it is my duty, not to denounce you as worthless, but to save you--yes, my own love, to save you!"

And, fully resolved, I turned upon my heel and walked back to Knightsbridge.

Recollecting my appointment with Whitlock, I hailed a hansom and drove straight to King's Cross, where, upon the departure platform, I found him walking up and down with Inspector Kennedy, giving him certain instructions. The latter was dressed in a smart suit of grey tweed, while my friend wore a dark brown overcoat and bowler hat.

"Halloa, Keene!" he cried, when he saw me. "Coming up with me, as you promised? I'm going to Scarborough by this train," indicating the one standing at the platform.

"Well----" I hesitated, for I had brought nothing.

"Oh, do come up. I've got a seat in the diner for you. We shall change into the back of the train at Doncaster."

I again hesitated.

"Hurry up and get a ticket. Look! there's only three minutes," he said, glancing at the clock.

And so, almost before I knew where I was, I found myself in the dining-car, with the train slowly moving out of the station on its journey North.

We had a small table to ourselves, therefore we could talk.

"Have you discovered whether the man last night was really Drayton?" I asked in eagerness.

He smiled, and placing his hand in his breast-pocket produced several letters and papers.

One of them was a large white printed form upon which were impressed ten finger-marks; the identification paper of a criminal from among the many thousand records kept at Scotland Yard. A second paper, smaller and something like a large-sized photograph, he placed beside it.

"Well?" I asked, looking at them both.

"The four fingers and thumb of the right hand are identical," he said triumphantly. "I was right, you see, after all."

"Then he is actually Francis Drayton!" I gasped, feeling that my revenge was near at hand.

"The finger-prints never lie, Keene."

"But how did you get these?" I inquired, indicating the photograph.

"Quite easily," he laughed. "Last night the man drank at a West End bar, you'll remember. I simply gave orders that the glass was to be taken away carefully and left untouched until I sent for it. Three hours later at the Yard they dusted it over with some of our green chalk which they find useful, and out came the tell-tale marks which are photographed there!"

"By Jove!" I exclaimed; "then there's even a danger of identification in going to get a drink?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Men who want to avoid recognition should wear gloves. Had Drayton worn his gloves we should have been puzzled. But, as it is, all is plain sailing."

"All plain sailing!" I echoed. "Then you have a clue?"

"Well--not exactly," was his rather dubious answer. "We must first establish the identity of the murdered woman."

"And of the suicide."

"The second will be easy when we discover the first. I'm hoping to get at something to-morrow morning in Scarborough. We shan't be there till half-past eleven. We'll stay at the Grand. Ever been there before?"

"Once," I answered, longing to take him into my confidence and tell him of the interview I had had that afternoon. "But how does the identification of Drayton affect the affair? Who is he?"

"The establishment of Drayton's identity puts an altogether new phase on the affair," he said. "Until this afternoon I believed that certain surmises I held were correct, but now I find them entirely wrong. We were following an entirely different line."

"And the present is the correct one?"

"I believe it to be. If we meet with success up in Scarborough, we ought by this time to-morrow to know the names of both women and the reason for the assassination."

"And also why the girl lived there alone with the telegraph instrument?" I added.

"Yes. That's one of the most mysterious points in the whole case. But we ought, if we persevere, to be able to clear it up." And as he replaced the papers he had shown me, I saw that he had with him the photograph we had discovered in Woburn Square.

"But tell me about Drayton. He interests me very much," I said. "Of what offence was he convicted?"

"His last was a sentence for forgery. He is, it seems, clever with his pen."

"He looks a very gentlemanly young man," I remarked.

"Quite the swell, I admit. Belongs to a good club in Piccadilly--under another name," Whitlock remarked. "It would astound and horrify the members of some good West-End clubs if they only knew how many of their fellow-members are shady characters who have adopted names which they did not receive at their baptism. I could point out at least a dozen men who have 'done time' and who now mix in the most select circles, their friends never dreaming that they report themselves periodically at some obscure police-station."

"Yes, the world of London is a strangely complex one," I admitted. "There must be many black sheep in even the most select clubs. The successful criminal can easily afford forty guineas entrance fee, and there are many men who will stand his sponsors for a monetary consideration. A good name, can, nowadays, as easily be purchased as a pound of cheese, and the biggest scandal in the Press to-day is entirely forgotten next week. But this man Drayton," I added, "tell me more about him."

"You seem very much interested in the fellow," was Whitlock's reply, as he went on eating his dinner. "He was released on licence from Parkhurst on July 11th last year, and for the past eight months has failed to report himself until three days ago, when he walked into the police-station at Staines, and gave his address at a cottage in Feltham, a few miles away. He stated that he had been abroad, and asked the inspector on duty to place the matter before the Commissioner of Police in order that his excuse might be accepted. Otherwise he is liable to be arrested and sent back to complete his term."

"And has he really been abroad?"

"I believe so--to Peru. But of that I'm not absolutely certain."

"Why to Peru? What has he been doing out there? Didn't you say that it was believed that Drayton had died in Lima."

"Yes; that's a fact that is extremely puzzling. He went out there with some motive, and, judging from his present means--for he has money, no doubt--his journey turned out a very profitable one. So profitable, indeed, that he told the inspector at Staines that he had decided to lead an honest life in future. But," Whitlock went on, "you remember the girl who was with him last night, don't you?"

"Yes," I said eagerly. "What about her?"

"Well," he replied, "I've found out one or two very curious facts concerning her. She's on the music-halls, it seems. But if all is true that I have learnt to-day, then I believe she knows more about the affair at Barnes than anybody else."

"What!" I gasped. "Do you believe that she committed the crime?"

"I believe nothing, until I have proof," was the officer's calm reply. "But the mystery concerning her and the double life she leads is--well, it is, to put it plainly, one of the most remarkable and extraordinary stories of duplicity and cunning that I've ever heard."