Chapter XXIII: In Search of the Truth

"Double life!" I gasped. "Tell me all about her--all that you know!"

But next instant I saw how, by my anxiety, I was betraying myself, and recognised how injudicious were my words.

"I only know what I've been told," replied Whitlock, glancing with surprise across at me. "She was Daisy Marvin, the music-hall favourite. You've surely seen her at the Oxford, Pavilion, and other places?"

"Yes, of course. But what have you heard about her?" I demanded. "I've always understood that she was a very quiet, respectable girl."

"Not very many of them about on the music-hall stage, I fancy," laughed my companion. "I wouldn't care to have a sister of mine in the profession. I'd rather see her dead first."

"But you can't condemn a whole community because there are a few black sheep in it," I protested.

"Well, my own profession has taken me a lot into the music-hall crowd, and shown me a good deal of the undercurrents there, Keene. If you doubt me go to the corner of York Road, Lambeth, any Monday morning. Go and speak with any of them there waiting for engagements, and ask them their opinion of their own women, and----"

"Yes, yes," I said; "but what is this extraordinary story, regarding Daisy Marvin?"

"Well, first and foremost, she's on very good terms with Drayton."

"You mean that he is her lover?" I remarked, a frenzy of jealousy convulsing me.

"How can we say that? We know nothing except what we saw with our own eyes last night."

"And from that what did you gather!"

"That he was very fond of her."

"And that his love was reciprocated?"

"Yes."

"And your informant--what does he allege against her!" I went on, eager to learn the depths of the perfidy of the woman who had so cruelly deceived me.

"Several curious things. The truth we shall probably learn up in Scarborough to-morrow."

"But are you of opinion that this variety artiste is in any way implicated in the tragedy at Barnes?"

"I repeat, I have no opinion--at present."

"Then I put it in another way. Are your inquiries directed towards such a theory?"

"Well, yes; but, remember, my mind is perfectly open. This curious story concerning a pretty woman does not prejudice me against her in the least. She may be the cat's-paw of Drayton, which seems to me most likely."

"His victim--eh?"

"In all probability. All women are more or less weak--especially in the hands of a good-looking young fellow of Drayton's stamp."

"But surely this is monstrous!" I cried, at risk of causing him further surprise. "She is very popular, and extremely good-looking, isn't she?"

"One of the prettiest girls on the London stage, without a doubt," he admitted. "But you know as well as I do, that it is frequently a woman's misfortune to be beautiful. Many a pretty woman has, before now, wished that Mother Nature had given her a different shape, for plainness and a poor figure save the fair sex from many unpleasantnesses."

"But, if we know the truth, cannot we save her from this man?" I suggested, bending deeply in earnestness across the narrow table of the dining-car.

"We don't know the truth yet," was my companion's reply; "we only surmise it. Therefore how can we act? What can we do in the girl's interests at present? Besides, it is evident, from her attitude last night, that she loves the fellow."

"You think so?" I asked hoarsely.

"Think so? Why, of course."

Little did Whitlock dream how deeply his words sank into my wounded heart, or what a storm of jealousy was raging within me; the fierce hatred of this criminal who held my own Daisy as wax between his hands. He should suffer. I swore within myself that he should. My love had been stolen, and I would punish him relentlessly for the theft. My whole life in future I would devote to my revenge.

"You said something about a double life that she is leading. Tell me about it."

"I'm not in possession of the details. It has merely been hinted to me--hinted in such a manner as to predict that I should discover something concerning her that would amaze me."

"Deceit and duplicity were hinted at, I suppose?"

He nodded.

"The term 'a double life' was used by my informant. That is all I know. We may discover something more up in Scarborough," Whitlock went on. "As far as I can see, there are certain points which we may elucidate up there."

"But I can't understand it," I said.

"Neither can I, Keene."

"Are you convinced that Drayton is the girl's lover? Has anyone told you so, I mean?"

"Well, not exactly in plain words."

"It's been hinted at?"

He nodded; a mysterious smile playing about his lips.

"Yes," he answered, after a brief pause, "a good deal has been hinted at--a good deal that is mysterious and unaccountable. The lady is, I admit, very pretty, but if all that is whispered is true, the pair are pretty well matched."

"What?" I cried, amazed. "Then she is not his victim?"

"To a certain degree I think she is. But what I mean is that she is not the very modest and unassuming little person she pretends to be."

"Yes; but tell me how, Whitlock. You make all sorts of veiled hints, but give me no real facts."

"Because I don't know any more facts than you yourself. But," he added, "you seem uncommonly interested in her. Smitten by her pretty face, eh, Keene?" he laughed.

"I am interested in her, and for a very good reason," was my bold reply. "If she is really Daisy Marvin, then she's the daughter of my late chief, the news editor of the _Evening Herald_."

"The dickens she is!" cried Whitlock, opening his eyes widely. "I didn't know that. Then, if she's his daughter, she would, of course, know some of the technique of journalism."

"I believe she does. I've heard, indeed, that she's reported concerts and social functions for the _Herald_ sometimes."

My companion grew thoughtful. I wondered if the current of his reflections ran in the same course as my own, for at that moment it suddenly occurred to me whether Daisy herself was not author of those mysterious Press messages that had placed us in possession of those curious but enigmatical facts. As the daughter of a journalist she would know the manner in which to write Press telegrams; the forms to use; and the language in which to couch them. If so, why had she cast suspicion upon me--why had she screamed when in that house at Barnes?

I recollected her strange questions and her evident misgiving when we had been together that afternoon in Kensington Gardens. And Whitlock's informant, whoever he was, hinted at her double life, whatever that meant!

"To me, Keene," my companion was saying, "it seems very remarkable that, if the young lady lives at home with her father and mother, as it appears, she should be able to make nocturnal visits as she did last night. Her movements entirely bear out what I have been told concerning her."

"What have you been told?" I demanded eagerly, anxious to ascertain the exact allegation.

"No," was his reply, "I never repeat any criticism of a woman's reputation before I have proof. Words lightly said can never be recalled, you know, and when a woman's honour is at stake care should always be exercised before it is besmirched."

"Then there is an allegation of dishonour," I said, in a hoarse voice. Ah! that awakening was to me the cruellest blow in all my life. In those past few hours all my belief in a woman's love, truth and honour had been shattered. I had struggled not to prejudge her; I had tried to regard her as the victim of that well-dressed young man who was a criminal, as a woman to be shielded and rescued from him. But Whitlock's declarations had sown further seed of suspicion within my heart, and had caused a fierce passion of hatred against Drayton to arise within me. Torn by the agony of jealousy I sat there as the train rushed northward, listening to my companion, who went on, unaware that he was discussing the woman whom I had loved better than my life.

"Yes," he said, "I somehow feel convinced that we shall discover some very remarkable evidence up in Scarborough, and that we shall find the young variety artiste not quite so innocent as she feigns to be." Then, after a pause, he asked, as though a sudden thought had occurred to him, "Do you happen to know whether she knew your friend, Julian Little?"

"Why?"

"Well--I'd like to know."

"They may have been acquainted," I replied vaguely. "Of course Little knows lots of people with whom I'm acquainted."

Whitlock grunted in dissatisfaction. What, I wondered, what could be at the back of his mind, for he had lapsed into silence. The cloth was removed from the table, and he took up the evening paper and became immersed in it. Huntingdon, Peterborough, and Essendine were passed as we rushed northward towards Grantham, our first stop.

My companion had lit a cigar, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying it, lolling back in the corner, idly reading the day's news. I furtively watched his countenance, but saw no look of anxiety upon it. Yes, Whitlock could be perfectly sphinx-like whenever he chose. To that very fact he attributed much of his success in the elucidation of mysterious crimes.

I, too, took up a paper; but only in pretence of reading. My mind was too torn by conflicting emotions to be able to centre itself upon what I read. I was reflecting deeply upon those extraordinary hints of his regarding what he had described as "the double life" of my well-beloved. What could that mean? What was the true extent of the perfidy of the woman whom I had loved to call my own--the woman whose sweet voice had been as music to my ear; whose soft touch had thrilled me; whose passionate glance I had mistaken for the true love-light? I had to imagine what could be the truth; Whitlock had refused to satisfy my curiosity. I knew well how careful he always was never to say evil of a woman until he had proof of it, whether she were a lady, or a girl of the people.

It was a trait of his character that I had hitherto admired. But now, when it touched my own future, I felt offended. He ought, I argued within myself, to tell me outright and frankly all that had been told him concerning Daisy.

I looked around the car. Near me sat a man and a woman--both young, both good-looking. I saw how happy they were. Why was I not the same?

I watched the girl, saw her smiling across the table at her companion, and noted how sweet and trusting was her face. Faugh! I turned away. Women were all the same. They laughed and smiled, and kissed and whispered, but behind were only deceit, treachery, and--a double life! My own existence had in those past few hours become soured and warped. I had loved--loved with all the power of my being; loved with a strong sense of right and duty; loved as an honest man should love the woman he intends to make his wife.

And what had been my repayment? Deceit and cold dismissal. The favours had been thrown to a man who was a criminal.

Yes; I would stand and denounce him. I, who now knew the truth, would, even at the risk of incurring Whitlock's displeasure, face them both and expose to her the naked, hideous truth.

The train rushed on, and I tried to analyse calmly and without prejudice my own mind. Such analysis was difficult. I either believed in the purity of my lost love, or I did not.

In the circumstances, what could I believe?

What would you have believed?