The Wiles of the Wicked. Le Queux William
if the latter, then I will wish you adieu, and the terrible fate your unknown enemies have prepared for you must be allowed to take effect.”
“But I should be drowned!” I exclaimed in alarm. “Surely you will not abandon me!”
“Not if you will consent to ally yourself with me.”
“For evil?” I suggested very dubiously.
“No, for good,” she answered. “I require your silence, and I desire that you should render assistance to one who is sorely in need of a friend.”
“Financial aid?”
“No, finance has nothing to do with it. The unknown person has money and to spare. It is a devoted personal assistance and obedience that is required.”
“But how can one be devoted to a person one has neither seen nor known?” I queried, for her words had increased the mystery.
The shrewd suspicion grew upon me that this curious effort to secure my silence was because of her own guilt; that she intended to bind me to a compact in her own nefarious interests.
“I am quite well aware of the strangeness of the conditions I am imposing upon you, but they are necessary.”
“And if I accept them will the mystery of to-night ever be explained?” I inquired, eager to learn the truth.
“Of that I know not,” she answered vaguely. “Your silence is required to preserve the secret.”
“But tell me,” I said quickly, “how many persons were there present in that house beside yourself?”
“No, no!” she ejaculated in a tone of horror. “Make no further inquiry. Try and forget all – everything – as I shall try and forget. You cannot know – you will never know – therefore it is utterly useless to seek to learn the truth.”
“And may I not even know your identity?” I inquired, putting forth my hand until it rested upon her well-formed shoulder. “May I not touch your face, so as to give me an impression of your personal appearance?”
She laughed at what, of course, must have seemed to her a rather amusing request.
“Give me permission to do this,” I urged. “If there is to be mutual trust between us it is only fair that I should know whether you are young or old.”
She hesitated. I felt her hand trembling.
“Remember, I cannot see you,” I went on. “By touch I can convey to my mind an impression of the contour of your features, and thus know with whom I am dealing.”
“Very well,” she said at last. “You have my permission.”
Then eagerly, with both my hands, I touched her face, while she stood rigid and motionless as a statue. I could feel by the contraction of the muscles that this action of mine amused her, and that she was laughing.
Her skin was soft as velvet, her lashes long, her features regular and finely cut like those of some old cameo. Her hair was dressed plainly, and she had about her shoulders a large cape of rich fur – sable I believed it to be. There was no doubt she was young, perhaps not more than twenty-one or so, and certainly she was very handsome of countenance, and dressed with an elegance quite unusual.
Her mouth was small, her chin pointed, and her cheeks with a firm contour which spoke of health and happiness. As I carefully passed my hands backwards and forwards, obtaining a fresh mental impression with each movement, she laughed outright.
Of a sudden, however, she sprang aside quickly, and left me grasping at air.
“Ah!” she cried, wildly horrified at a sudden discovery. “There is blood upon your hands —his blood!”
“I had forgotten,” I apologised quickly. “Forgive me; I cannot see, and was not aware that my hands were unclean.”
“It’s too terrible,” she gasped hoarsely. “You have placed those stained hands upon my face, as though to taunt me.”
“With what?” I inquired, breathlessly interested.
But she did not reply. She only held her breath, while her heart beat quickly, and by her silence I felt convinced that by her involuntary ejaculation she had nearly betrayed herself.
The sole question which occupied my thoughts at that moment was whether she was not the actual assassin. I forgot my own critical position. I recollected not the remarkable adventures that had befallen me that night. I thought not of the ghastly fate prepared for me by my unknown enemies. All my thoughts were concentrated upon the one problem – the innocence or guilt of that unseen, soft-spoken woman before me.
“And now,” she said at last – “now that you have satisfied yourself of my personal appearance, are you prepared to accept the conditions?”
“I confess to having some hesitation in doing so,” I answered, quite frankly.
“That is not at all surprising. But the very fact of your own defencelessness should cause you to ally yourself with one who has shown herself to be your protectress, and seeks to remain your friend.”
“What motive can you possibly have for thus endeavouring to ally yourself with me?” I inquired, without attempting to disguise my suspicion.
“A secret one.”
“For your own ends, of course?”
“Not exactly. For our mutual interests. By my own action in taking you in when you were knocked down by the cab I have placed your life in serious jeopardy; therefore, it is only just that I should now seek to rescue you. Yet if I do so without first obtaining your promise of silence and of assistance, I may, for aught I know, bring an overwhelming catastrophe upon myself.”
“You assure me, upon your honour as a woman, that no harm shall befall me if I carry out the instructions in those mysterious letters?”
“If you obey without seeking to elucidate their mystery, or the identity of their sender, no harm shall come to you,” she answered solemnly.
“And regarding the silence which you seek to impose upon me? May I not explain my adventures to my friend, in order to account for the blood upon my clothes and the injury to my head?”
“Only if you find it actually necessary. Recollect, however, that no statement whatever must be made to the police. You must give an undertaking never to divulge to them one single word of what occurred last night.”
There was a dead silence, broken only by the lapping of water, which had already risen and had flooded the chamber to the depth of about two inches. The place was a veritable death-trap, for, being a kind of cellar and below high-water mark, the Thames flood entered by a hole near the floor too small to permit the escape of a man, and would rise until it reached the roof.
“Come,” she urged at last. “Give me your undertaking, and let us at once get away from this horrible place.”
I remained silent. Anxious to escape and save my life, I nevertheless entertained deep suspicions of her, because of her anxiety that I should give no information to the police. She had drawn back in horror at the sight of the blood of the murdered man! Had she not, by her hesitation, admitted her own guilt?
“You don’t trust me,” she observed, with an air of bitter reproach.
“No,” I answered, very bluntly; “I do not.”
“You are at least plain and outspoken,” she responded. “But as our interests are mutual, I surely may presume to advise you to accept the conditions. Life is better than death, even though one may be blind.”
“And you hold back from me the chance to escape from this slow but inevitable fate unless I conform to your wishes?”
“I do.”
“Such action as yours cannot inspire confidence.”
“I am impelled by circumstances beyond my own control,” she answered, with a momentary touch of sadness. “If you knew the truth you certainly would not hesitate.”
“Will