Chapter Twenty Five.The Person who Knew.The encounter was a startling one.At the moment when my eyes first fell upon the figure standing patiently in the booking-office awaiting me, I halted for a second in uncertainty. The silhouette before me was that of a youngish, brown-haired, and rather good-looking woman, neatly dressed in dead black, wearing a large hat and a feather boa round her neck.By the expression of her face I saw that she had recognised me. I had, of course, never seen her before, yet her personal appearance—the grey eyes and brown hair—were exactly similar to those described so minutely on several occasions by West, the cab-driver. I regarded her for a moment in silent wonder, then advanced to meet her.She was none other than the unknown woman who had saved my life on that fateful night at The Boltons—the mysterious Edna!As I raised my hat she bowed gracefully, and with a merry smile, said: “I fear that, to you, I am a stranger. I recognise you, however, as Mr Heaton.”“That is certainly my name,” I responded, still puzzled. “And you—well, our recognition is, I believe, mutual—you are Edna.”She glanced at me quickly, as though suspicious. “How did you know that?” she inquired. “You have never seen me before. You were totally blind on the last occasion we met.”“I recognised you from your description,” I answered with a light laugh.“My description!” she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm.“Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home on that memorable morning.”“Ah! Of course,” she ejaculated in sudden remembrance. Then, for a few seconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that I had recognised her had somewhat confused her.“But I am extremely glad that we have met at last,” I assured her. “I have, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking you for the great services you once rendered me.”“I find with satisfaction that although six years have gone by you have not forgotten your promise made to me,” she said, her large serious eyes fixed upon mine.“I gave you that promise in exchange for my life,” I remarked, as, at her suggestion, we turned and walked out of the station.“And as acknowledgement of the service you rendered by preserving secret your knowledge of the events of that terrible night I was enabled to render you a small service in return,” she said. “Your sight was restored to you.”“For that, how can I sufficiently thank you?” I exclaimed. “I owe it all to you, and rest assured that, although we have not met until this evening, I have never forgotten—nor shall I ever forget.”She smiled pleasantly, while I strolled slowly at her side across the station-yard.To me those moments were like a dream. Edna, the woman who had hitherto been but a strange ghost of the past, was now actually beside me in the flesh.“I have received other notes making appointments—the last, I think, a couple of years ago,” I observed after a pause. “Did you not meet me then?”She glanced at me with a puzzled expression. Of course she knew nothing of those lost years of my life.“Meet you?” she repeated. “Certainly not.”“Who met me, then?”“I really don’t know,” she answered. “This is the first time I have approached you, and I only come to you now in order to ask you to grant me a favour—a very great favour.”“A favour! What is it?”“I cannot explain here, in the street,” she said quickly. “If you will come to my hotel I will place the facts before you.”“Where are you staying?”“At theBath Hotel, in Arlington Street.”I knew the place well. It stood at the corner of Arlington Street and Piccadilly, and was an eminently respectable, old-fashioned place, patronised by a high-class clientèle.“And you are alone?” I inquired, thinking it strange that she should thus ask me to her hotel.“Of course. I have come to London expressly to see you,” she responded. “I went down to Budleigh-Salterton two days ago, but I ascertained at Denbury that you had left suddenly.”“Whom did you see there?” I inquired, much interested.“Your butler. He told me some absurd story, how that you had become temporarily irresponsible for your actions, and had disappeared, leaving no address.”“And you came to London?”“Of course.”“And how did you find out where I was hidden, and my assumed name?”She smiled mysteriously.“It was easy enough, I assure you. A man of your influence in the City, and as well known as you are, has considerable difficulty in effectively concealing his identity.”“But who told you where I was staying?” I demanded.“Nobody. I discovered it for myself.”“And yet the police have been searching for me everywhere, and have not yet discovered me!” I remarked, surprised.“The police have one method,” she said. “I have an entirely different one.”“Tell me one thing,” I said, halting in our walk, for we were already at the commencement of Victoria Street—that street down which I had wandered blindly on that night long ago when I had lost myself—“tell me for what reason those previous appointments were made with me at Grosvenor Gate, at King’s Cross, at Eastbourne, and elsewhere?”“You kept them,” she replied. “You surely know.”“No, that’s just it,” I said. “Of course, I don’t expect you to give credence to what I say—it sounds too absurd—but I have absolutely no knowledge of keeping those appointments except the one at Grosvenor Gate, and I am totally ignorant of having met anybody.” She paused, looking me full in the face with those grey eyes so full of mystery.“I begin to think that what the butler told me contains some truth,” she observed bluntly.“No,” I protested. “My mind is in no way unhinged. I am fully aware of all that transpired at The Boltons, of—”“At The Boltons?” she interrupted, turning a trifle pale. “What do you mean?”“Of the crime enacted at that house—in The Boltons.” She held her breath. Plainly she was not before aware that I had discovered the spot where the tragedy had taken place. My words had taken her by surprise, and it was evident that she was utterly confounded. My discovery I had kept a profound secret unto myself, and now, for the first time, had revealed it.Her face showed how utterly taken aback she was. “There is some mistake, I think,” she said lamely, apparently for want of something other to say.“Surely your memory carries you back to that midnight tragedy!” I exclaimed rather hastily, for I saw she would even now mislead me, if she could. “I have discovered where it took place—I have since re-entered that room?”“You have!” she gasped in the low, hoarse voice of one fearful lest her secret should be discovered. “You have actually re-discovered the house—even though you were stone blind?”“Yes,” I answered.“How did you accomplish it?”I shrugged my shoulders, answering: “There is an old saying—a very true one—that ‘murder will out.’”“But tell me more. Explain more fully,” she urged in an earnest tone.I hesitated. Next instant, however, I decided to keep my own counsel in the matter. Her readiness to deny that the events occurred in that house had re-aroused within me a distinct suspicion.“It is a long story, and cannot be told here,” I answered evasively.“Then come along to the hotel,” she suggested. “I, too, have much to say to you.”I do not know that I should have obeyed her were it not for the mystery which had hitherto, veiled her identity. She had saved my life, it is true, and I supposed that I ought to consider her as a friend, yet in those few minutes during which I had gazed upon her a curious dislike of her had arisen within me. She was, I felt certain, not the straightforward person I had once believed her to be.Not that there was anything in her appearance against her. On the contrary, she was a pleasant, smiling, rather pretty woman of perhaps thirty-five, who spoke with the air and manner of a lady, and who carried herself well, with the grace of one in a higher social circle.After a few moments’ hesitation my curiosity got the better of my natural caution, and I determined to hear what she had to say. Therefore we drove together to theBath Hotel.In her own private sitting-room, a cosy little apartment overlooking Piccadilly, opposite Dover Street, she removed her big black hat, drew off her gloves, and having invited me to a chair, took one herself on the opposite side of the fireplace. Her maid was there when we entered, but retired at word from her mistress.“You, of course, regard it as very curious, Mr Heaton, that after these six years I should again seek you,” she commenced, leaning her arm lightly upon the little table, and gazing straight into my face without flinching. “It is true that once I was enabled to render you a service, and now in return I ask you also to render me one. Of course, it is useless to deny that a secret exists between us—a secret which, if revealed, would be disastrous.”“To whom?”“To certain persons whose names need not be mentioned.”“Why not?”“Think,” she said, very gravely. “Did you not promise that, in return for your life when you were blind and helpless, you would make no effort to learn the true facts? It seems that you have already learnt at least one—the spot where the crime was committed.”“I consider it my duty to learn what I can of this affair,” I answered determinedly.She raised her eyebrows with an expression of surprise, for she saw that I was in earnest.“After your vow to me?” she asked. “Remember that, to acknowledge my indebtedness for that vow, I searched for the one specialist who could restore your sight. To my efforts, Mr Heaton, you are now in possession of that sense that was lost to you.”“I acknowledge that freely,” I answered. “Yet, even in that you have sought to deceive me.”“How?”“You told me you were not the writer of those letters signed with a pseudonym.”“And that is true. I was not the actual writer, even though I may have caused them to be written.”“Having thus deceived me, how can you hope that I can be free with you?”“I regret,” she answered, “that slight deception has been necessary to preserve the secret?”“The secret of the crime?”She nodded.“Well, and what do you wish to tell me this evening?” She was silent for a moment, toying with her rings.“I want to appeal to your generosity. I want you to assist me.”“In what manner?”“As before.”“As before!” I repeated, greatly surprised. “I have no knowledge of having assisted you before.”“What?” she cried. “Is your memory so defective that you do not recollect your transactions with those who waited upon you—those who kept the previous appointments of which you have spoken?”“I assure you, madam,” I said, quite calmly, “I have not the least idea of what you mean.”“Mr Heaton!” she cried. “Have you really taken leave of your senses? Is it actually true what your butler has said of you—that on the day you left Denbury you behaved like a madman?”“I am no madman!” I cried with considerable warmth. “The truth is that I remember nothing since one evening, nearly six years ago, when I was smoking with—with a friend—in Chelsea, until that day to which my servant has referred.”“You remember nothing? That is most extraordinary.”“If strange to you, madam, how much more strange to me? I have told you the truth, therefore kindly proceed to explain the object of these previous visits of persons you have apparently sent to me.”“I really think that you must be joking,” she said. “It seems impossible that you should actually be unaware.”“I tell you that I have no knowledge whatsoever of their business with me.”“Then if such is really the case, let me explain,” she said. “First, I think you will admit that your financial transactions with our Government have brought you very handsome profits.”“I am not aware of having had any transactions with the British Government,” I answered.“I refer to that of Bulgaria,” she explained. “Surely you are aware that through my intermediary you have obtained great concessions—the docks at Varna, the electric trams at Sofia, the railway from Timova to the Servian frontier, not to mention other great undertakings which have been floated as companies, all of which are now earning handsome profits. You cannot be ignorant of that!”I remembered that Gedge had shown me some official parchment which he had explained were concessions obtained from Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria. That this woman had been the means of securing to me the greater part of the enormous profits which I had apparently made within the past five years was certainly surprising.“On the day I recovered consciousness—the day of my departure from Denbury—I was shown some documents, but took but little heed of them,” I said.“You admit, however, that the employment of British capital in Bulgaria has realised a very handsome profit, and that the greater part of it has gone into your own pockets?”“I suppose that is so,” I responded. “Is it to you that I am indebted for those concessions?”“Certainly.”“Are you, then, an ambassadress of the Principality of Bulgaria?”“Well, yes—if you choose to put it so.”“Then, as I understand, it is with some further financial object that you have sought me this evening?”“Exactly.”This latest development of the affair was certainly most remarkable. I had never dreamed that to this hitherto unknown woman I had been indebted for the unparalleled success which had attended my career during those past six years. Yet, from the facts she subsequently placed before me, it would seem that it was at her instigation that I first dabbled in finance. She, or rather her agents, had obtained for me the negotiation of a substantial loan to Prince Ferdinand, and this had been followed by all sorts of concessions, not one of which had tuned out badly.The mysterious Edna, whom I had always believed to be a typical blouse-and-bicycle girl of the true Kensington type, was actually a political agent of that most turbulent of all the European States.I sat looking at her in wonderment. She possessed a superb carriage, a smart, well-dressed figure, a smiling, intelligent face, white, even teeth, a complexion just a trifle dark, but betraying no trace of foreign birth. Her English was perfect, her manner purely that of the patrician, while her surprising tact possessed all thefinesseof an accomplished diplomatist.“I confess that I have all along been in entire ignorance of my indebtedness to you,” I said, after listening to her while she explained how obediently I had followed the instructions contained in the letters signed “Avel,” and how I had so materially advanced the interests of the Principality that the thanks of the Bulgarian Parliament, or Sobranje had been tendered to me, and the Prince himself had a couple of years ago conferred upon me the highest distinction within his power.Yet it was more than strange that while this shrewd grey-eyed woman, the possessor of the secret of that puzzling crime, held aloof from me, she had ingeniously contrived that I should become the unwitting catspaw of an unstable State.I was thinking of Mabel—my thoughts were always of my lost love—and I was wondering how I might obtain from this woman the secret of her whereabouts.
The encounter was a startling one.
At the moment when my eyes first fell upon the figure standing patiently in the booking-office awaiting me, I halted for a second in uncertainty. The silhouette before me was that of a youngish, brown-haired, and rather good-looking woman, neatly dressed in dead black, wearing a large hat and a feather boa round her neck.
By the expression of her face I saw that she had recognised me. I had, of course, never seen her before, yet her personal appearance—the grey eyes and brown hair—were exactly similar to those described so minutely on several occasions by West, the cab-driver. I regarded her for a moment in silent wonder, then advanced to meet her.
She was none other than the unknown woman who had saved my life on that fateful night at The Boltons—the mysterious Edna!
As I raised my hat she bowed gracefully, and with a merry smile, said: “I fear that, to you, I am a stranger. I recognise you, however, as Mr Heaton.”
“That is certainly my name,” I responded, still puzzled. “And you—well, our recognition is, I believe, mutual—you are Edna.”
She glanced at me quickly, as though suspicious. “How did you know that?” she inquired. “You have never seen me before. You were totally blind on the last occasion we met.”
“I recognised you from your description,” I answered with a light laugh.
“My description!” she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm.
“Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home on that memorable morning.”
“Ah! Of course,” she ejaculated in sudden remembrance. Then, for a few seconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that I had recognised her had somewhat confused her.
“But I am extremely glad that we have met at last,” I assured her. “I have, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking you for the great services you once rendered me.”
“I find with satisfaction that although six years have gone by you have not forgotten your promise made to me,” she said, her large serious eyes fixed upon mine.
“I gave you that promise in exchange for my life,” I remarked, as, at her suggestion, we turned and walked out of the station.
“And as acknowledgement of the service you rendered by preserving secret your knowledge of the events of that terrible night I was enabled to render you a small service in return,” she said. “Your sight was restored to you.”
“For that, how can I sufficiently thank you?” I exclaimed. “I owe it all to you, and rest assured that, although we have not met until this evening, I have never forgotten—nor shall I ever forget.”
She smiled pleasantly, while I strolled slowly at her side across the station-yard.
To me those moments were like a dream. Edna, the woman who had hitherto been but a strange ghost of the past, was now actually beside me in the flesh.
“I have received other notes making appointments—the last, I think, a couple of years ago,” I observed after a pause. “Did you not meet me then?”
She glanced at me with a puzzled expression. Of course she knew nothing of those lost years of my life.
“Meet you?” she repeated. “Certainly not.”
“Who met me, then?”
“I really don’t know,” she answered. “This is the first time I have approached you, and I only come to you now in order to ask you to grant me a favour—a very great favour.”
“A favour! What is it?”
“I cannot explain here, in the street,” she said quickly. “If you will come to my hotel I will place the facts before you.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At theBath Hotel, in Arlington Street.”
I knew the place well. It stood at the corner of Arlington Street and Piccadilly, and was an eminently respectable, old-fashioned place, patronised by a high-class clientèle.
“And you are alone?” I inquired, thinking it strange that she should thus ask me to her hotel.
“Of course. I have come to London expressly to see you,” she responded. “I went down to Budleigh-Salterton two days ago, but I ascertained at Denbury that you had left suddenly.”
“Whom did you see there?” I inquired, much interested.
“Your butler. He told me some absurd story, how that you had become temporarily irresponsible for your actions, and had disappeared, leaving no address.”
“And you came to London?”
“Of course.”
“And how did you find out where I was hidden, and my assumed name?”
She smiled mysteriously.
“It was easy enough, I assure you. A man of your influence in the City, and as well known as you are, has considerable difficulty in effectively concealing his identity.”
“But who told you where I was staying?” I demanded.
“Nobody. I discovered it for myself.”
“And yet the police have been searching for me everywhere, and have not yet discovered me!” I remarked, surprised.
“The police have one method,” she said. “I have an entirely different one.”
“Tell me one thing,” I said, halting in our walk, for we were already at the commencement of Victoria Street—that street down which I had wandered blindly on that night long ago when I had lost myself—“tell me for what reason those previous appointments were made with me at Grosvenor Gate, at King’s Cross, at Eastbourne, and elsewhere?”
“You kept them,” she replied. “You surely know.”
“No, that’s just it,” I said. “Of course, I don’t expect you to give credence to what I say—it sounds too absurd—but I have absolutely no knowledge of keeping those appointments except the one at Grosvenor Gate, and I am totally ignorant of having met anybody.” She paused, looking me full in the face with those grey eyes so full of mystery.
“I begin to think that what the butler told me contains some truth,” she observed bluntly.
“No,” I protested. “My mind is in no way unhinged. I am fully aware of all that transpired at The Boltons, of—”
“At The Boltons?” she interrupted, turning a trifle pale. “What do you mean?”
“Of the crime enacted at that house—in The Boltons.” She held her breath. Plainly she was not before aware that I had discovered the spot where the tragedy had taken place. My words had taken her by surprise, and it was evident that she was utterly confounded. My discovery I had kept a profound secret unto myself, and now, for the first time, had revealed it.
Her face showed how utterly taken aback she was. “There is some mistake, I think,” she said lamely, apparently for want of something other to say.
“Surely your memory carries you back to that midnight tragedy!” I exclaimed rather hastily, for I saw she would even now mislead me, if she could. “I have discovered where it took place—I have since re-entered that room?”
“You have!” she gasped in the low, hoarse voice of one fearful lest her secret should be discovered. “You have actually re-discovered the house—even though you were stone blind?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“How did you accomplish it?”
I shrugged my shoulders, answering: “There is an old saying—a very true one—that ‘murder will out.’”
“But tell me more. Explain more fully,” she urged in an earnest tone.
I hesitated. Next instant, however, I decided to keep my own counsel in the matter. Her readiness to deny that the events occurred in that house had re-aroused within me a distinct suspicion.
“It is a long story, and cannot be told here,” I answered evasively.
“Then come along to the hotel,” she suggested. “I, too, have much to say to you.”
I do not know that I should have obeyed her were it not for the mystery which had hitherto, veiled her identity. She had saved my life, it is true, and I supposed that I ought to consider her as a friend, yet in those few minutes during which I had gazed upon her a curious dislike of her had arisen within me. She was, I felt certain, not the straightforward person I had once believed her to be.
Not that there was anything in her appearance against her. On the contrary, she was a pleasant, smiling, rather pretty woman of perhaps thirty-five, who spoke with the air and manner of a lady, and who carried herself well, with the grace of one in a higher social circle.
After a few moments’ hesitation my curiosity got the better of my natural caution, and I determined to hear what she had to say. Therefore we drove together to theBath Hotel.
In her own private sitting-room, a cosy little apartment overlooking Piccadilly, opposite Dover Street, she removed her big black hat, drew off her gloves, and having invited me to a chair, took one herself on the opposite side of the fireplace. Her maid was there when we entered, but retired at word from her mistress.
“You, of course, regard it as very curious, Mr Heaton, that after these six years I should again seek you,” she commenced, leaning her arm lightly upon the little table, and gazing straight into my face without flinching. “It is true that once I was enabled to render you a service, and now in return I ask you also to render me one. Of course, it is useless to deny that a secret exists between us—a secret which, if revealed, would be disastrous.”
“To whom?”
“To certain persons whose names need not be mentioned.”
“Why not?”
“Think,” she said, very gravely. “Did you not promise that, in return for your life when you were blind and helpless, you would make no effort to learn the true facts? It seems that you have already learnt at least one—the spot where the crime was committed.”
“I consider it my duty to learn what I can of this affair,” I answered determinedly.
She raised her eyebrows with an expression of surprise, for she saw that I was in earnest.
“After your vow to me?” she asked. “Remember that, to acknowledge my indebtedness for that vow, I searched for the one specialist who could restore your sight. To my efforts, Mr Heaton, you are now in possession of that sense that was lost to you.”
“I acknowledge that freely,” I answered. “Yet, even in that you have sought to deceive me.”
“How?”
“You told me you were not the writer of those letters signed with a pseudonym.”
“And that is true. I was not the actual writer, even though I may have caused them to be written.”
“Having thus deceived me, how can you hope that I can be free with you?”
“I regret,” she answered, “that slight deception has been necessary to preserve the secret?”
“The secret of the crime?”
She nodded.
“Well, and what do you wish to tell me this evening?” She was silent for a moment, toying with her rings.
“I want to appeal to your generosity. I want you to assist me.”
“In what manner?”
“As before.”
“As before!” I repeated, greatly surprised. “I have no knowledge of having assisted you before.”
“What?” she cried. “Is your memory so defective that you do not recollect your transactions with those who waited upon you—those who kept the previous appointments of which you have spoken?”
“I assure you, madam,” I said, quite calmly, “I have not the least idea of what you mean.”
“Mr Heaton!” she cried. “Have you really taken leave of your senses? Is it actually true what your butler has said of you—that on the day you left Denbury you behaved like a madman?”
“I am no madman!” I cried with considerable warmth. “The truth is that I remember nothing since one evening, nearly six years ago, when I was smoking with—with a friend—in Chelsea, until that day to which my servant has referred.”
“You remember nothing? That is most extraordinary.”
“If strange to you, madam, how much more strange to me? I have told you the truth, therefore kindly proceed to explain the object of these previous visits of persons you have apparently sent to me.”
“I really think that you must be joking,” she said. “It seems impossible that you should actually be unaware.”
“I tell you that I have no knowledge whatsoever of their business with me.”
“Then if such is really the case, let me explain,” she said. “First, I think you will admit that your financial transactions with our Government have brought you very handsome profits.”
“I am not aware of having had any transactions with the British Government,” I answered.
“I refer to that of Bulgaria,” she explained. “Surely you are aware that through my intermediary you have obtained great concessions—the docks at Varna, the electric trams at Sofia, the railway from Timova to the Servian frontier, not to mention other great undertakings which have been floated as companies, all of which are now earning handsome profits. You cannot be ignorant of that!”
I remembered that Gedge had shown me some official parchment which he had explained were concessions obtained from Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria. That this woman had been the means of securing to me the greater part of the enormous profits which I had apparently made within the past five years was certainly surprising.
“On the day I recovered consciousness—the day of my departure from Denbury—I was shown some documents, but took but little heed of them,” I said.
“You admit, however, that the employment of British capital in Bulgaria has realised a very handsome profit, and that the greater part of it has gone into your own pockets?”
“I suppose that is so,” I responded. “Is it to you that I am indebted for those concessions?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you, then, an ambassadress of the Principality of Bulgaria?”
“Well, yes—if you choose to put it so.”
“Then, as I understand, it is with some further financial object that you have sought me this evening?”
“Exactly.”
This latest development of the affair was certainly most remarkable. I had never dreamed that to this hitherto unknown woman I had been indebted for the unparalleled success which had attended my career during those past six years. Yet, from the facts she subsequently placed before me, it would seem that it was at her instigation that I first dabbled in finance. She, or rather her agents, had obtained for me the negotiation of a substantial loan to Prince Ferdinand, and this had been followed by all sorts of concessions, not one of which had tuned out badly.
The mysterious Edna, whom I had always believed to be a typical blouse-and-bicycle girl of the true Kensington type, was actually a political agent of that most turbulent of all the European States.
I sat looking at her in wonderment. She possessed a superb carriage, a smart, well-dressed figure, a smiling, intelligent face, white, even teeth, a complexion just a trifle dark, but betraying no trace of foreign birth. Her English was perfect, her manner purely that of the patrician, while her surprising tact possessed all thefinesseof an accomplished diplomatist.
“I confess that I have all along been in entire ignorance of my indebtedness to you,” I said, after listening to her while she explained how obediently I had followed the instructions contained in the letters signed “Avel,” and how I had so materially advanced the interests of the Principality that the thanks of the Bulgarian Parliament, or Sobranje had been tendered to me, and the Prince himself had a couple of years ago conferred upon me the highest distinction within his power.
Yet it was more than strange that while this shrewd grey-eyed woman, the possessor of the secret of that puzzling crime, held aloof from me, she had ingeniously contrived that I should become the unwitting catspaw of an unstable State.
I was thinking of Mabel—my thoughts were always of my lost love—and I was wondering how I might obtain from this woman the secret of her whereabouts.
Chapter Twenty Six.Edna Makes a Proposal.“Well,” I inquired at last; “and your reason for seeing me this evening?”She hesitated, as though uncertain in what manner to place her project before me. She moved uneasily, and, rising, drew forth a large dispatch-box from its leathern case and placed it upon the table. I noticed that the outer case bore a count’s coronet with a cipher beneath.Having opened the box with a tiny gold master-key which hung upon her bracelet, she drew forth some official-looking papers, and with them returned to her chair.“You have already been entrusted with a secret, which you have not betrayed—the secret of that unfortunate occurrence on the evening when accident first brought us together,” she commenced gravely. “Therefore I feel convinced that any further confidence placed in you will not be abused.”“I am honoured to think, madam, that you should entertain such an opinion of me,” I said, not, however, without the slightest touch of sarcasm.I did not forget that she had only rescued me from my enemies in return for my silence. She was not a woman to act without strong motives. Moreover, she had admitted knowledge of that strange midnight crime at The Boltons, and was, therefore, an accessory after the fact.“You are the Prince’s confidential agent here, in London, and I come to you on a mission direct from His Serene Highness.”“From Bulgaria?” I inquired.“Yes. I left Sofia a week ago,” she answered. “It was at first proposed to place the matter in the hands of Guéchoff, our diplomatic representative at the Court of St. James’s, but, on consideration, His Serene Highness, knowing that with the present state of high feeling in the Sobranje a single hint leaking out might prove disastrous, to the dynasty, and perhaps to the nation, resolved to place the matter unreservedly in my hands. The Prince did me the honour of referring in terms of praise to my previous dealings with you, and instructed me to lose no time in seeing you and invoking your aid.”“In what direction?” Was it not amazing that I should awake from my years of unconsciousness to find myself so powerful in the world of finance that reigning princes sought my assistance?“I have here a letter from His Serene Highness;” and she handed me a note which bore the Bulgarian royal arms, and had apparently been written by the Prince’s own hand. It was merely a formal note asking me to consider the secret proposals which would be placed before me by the bearer.“Well?” I inquired, when I had read it. “Explain.”“Briefly,” she said, “the facts are as follows: The throne of Bulgaria, never very safe owing to the eternal bickering between St. Petersburg and the Porte, is at this moment in imminent danger. The People’s Party in the Sobranje have been defeated, and the police have learnt of a projected popular uprising against His Highness in favour of a republic, the agitation being, of course, caused by paid agents of Russia. It is an open secret that Russia, at the first sign of an outbreak, would endeavour to annex the country, hence the position of the throne grows each moment more perilous. Fear of giving offence to Russia prevents orders being issued for the arrest of the secret agitators, and it seems therefore as though a revolution cannot long be delayed. It is your aid His Serene Highness seeks—your aid to negotiate a loan of half a million sterling.”“Half a million!” I ejaculated. “A large sum! It seems incredible that I should be a dealer in millions.”“A large sum, certainly, but you can easily obtain it,” she quickly assured me. “I have all the necessary preliminaries of the securities here;” and she pointed to the pile of papers at her side.“I take it that the money is required for the Prince’s private purse?”“No; solely for defence—to purchase arms and ammunition; to pay the army the arrears due, so as to secure their support in case of an outbreak, and to pay certain heavy sums as secret-service money. All this is imperative in order to save the country from falling into the hands of Russia. But it must be done, of course, in strictest secrecy, His Highness, as I have already explained, hesitated to entrust the matter to his recognised minister here because the spies of Russia are everywhere, and if any knowledge of his intentions leaked out it would be fatal to his plans.”“And so he trusts me!” I said, smiling.“He does, absolutely.”“And where does His Highness think that I am going to get half a million of money from at a moment’s notice, pray?” I asked with a smile.“With these in your possession there will be no difficulty,” she responded coolly, indicating the papers. “There is not a financial agent in the City of London who would not be only too delighted to, without its intentions being known.”“But you say it is all a secret,” I observed. “How do you think it possible that I can raise such a loan without its intentions being known?”She laughed outright.“The money, you will find from the documents here, is ostensibly for the construction of a new railway from Philippopolis, by the Shipka to Rustchuk. The plans are here, properly prepared, so that you need have no hesitation in showing them to any railway engineer.”I saw that she had been trained in a school of clever diplomacy.“And you say that security will be given?”“Certainly. The proposal is to give the customs receipts. They would be ample. Failing that, it is probable that the Princess’s jewels, which, as you know, include some of the finest pearls in Europe, might be available. Of the latter, however, I am not sure.”I remained silent, turning over the papers she had passed across to me. They were mostly in French, and, therefore, easily understood. The documents related to “the long projected scheme of constructing a railway from Philippopolis to Eski Saghra, thence across the Shipka to Rasgrad, joining the line already in operation between Varna and Rustchuk.” Appended were official declarations from the Bulgarian Minister of Finance, countersigned by the Prince himself.The documents were certainly very ingeniously contrived so as to conceal the real purpose of the loan. I remarked this, and my companion, laughing lightly, said—“Deception, to some extent, is always necessary in delicate diplomacy.”The discovery that the mysterious woman—whose name she had withheld from me—was actually a secret agent of the autonomous Principality created by the Berlin Treaty—that turbulent State mostly notable for the assassination of its Ministers—was entirely unlooked for. On the night when accident had thrown us together, and she had smoothed my brow with her cool hand, I had believed her to be a young girl who had taken pity upon me in my helplessness; but the revelations she had made during that half-hour showed that there had been some firm purpose underlying it all.She alone knew the truth of that tragic occurrence at The Boltons, and I saw that in this matter I had to deal with a very clever and ingenious woman.I had now a double purpose in life—to discover Mabel, and to elucidate the mystery of the crime. Towards that end I intended to strive, and as I sat with my glance fixed upon those mysterious grey eyes, I endeavoured to form some plan of action.“Madam,” I said gravely, at last, “as you appear not to place sufficient confidence in me to tell me your name, I regret that I can place no confidence in these documents.”“My name!” she laughed. “Ah, of course; I had quite forgotten. There is no secret about it;” and from her purse she drew forth a folded, much-worn blue paper, which she handed to me.It was an English passport, bearing the name of “Lucy Edna Grainger.”“Grainger?” I repeated. “Then you are English?”“Yes, I am legally a British subject, because my father was English. I was, however, born abroad.”A silence fell between us. The roar of the traffic in Piccadilly came up from below; the summer night was warm, and the window stood open. At last I determined upon a bold course.“Now that we have met,” I said, “I wish to ask you one or two questions. First, I am desirous of knowing the whereabouts of Mrs Anson and her daughter.”I was watching her narrowly, and saw her give a distinct start at my mention of the same. Next instant, however, she recovered herself, and with marvellous tact repeated—“Anson? Anson? I have no acquaintance with any person of that name.”I smiled.“I think it unnecessary that you should deny this, when the truth is so very plain,” I observed sarcastically. “You will, perhaps, next deny that a young man was foully murdered within that house in The Boltons; that you were present, and that you are aware of the identity of those who committed the crime?”The pallor of her cheeks showed plainly that I had recalled unwelcome memories.“The unfortunate affair is all of the past,” she said hoarsely. “Why need we discuss it?”“In the interests of justice,” I answered, with firm determination.“Have you not agreed to remain silent? Have you not, as recompense, received back your sight, and become enriched beyond your wildest dreams? Surely you, at least, should not complain.”“I complain of the manner in which the secret of the crime has been preserved,” I said. “I have determined, however, that it shall remain secret no longer.”“You would inform the police!” she gasped, for the moment unable to conceal her alarm.“If you have no knowledge of Mrs Anson, then I intend to invoke the aid of Scotland Yard in order to discover her.”My words perplexed her. That she was acquainted with the Ansons I had no doubt, and I was likewise certain that she would never risk information being given to the police. More than once in the days long past I had entertained a shrewd suspicion that she herself was the actual murderer of that young unknown man. I looked at her pale face, and vaguely wondered again whether such were the truth.The fact that she had secured my silence in return for my life as an outcome of that most ingenious conspiracy had seemed to me proof conclusive of her guilt, and now that we had met in those strange circumstances the idea became impressed upon me more forcibly than ever.What might be her real position in the secret diplomacy of Bulgaria I knew not. It was evident that considerable confidence was reposed in her. She had come to me with a cool demand to raise a loan of half a million sterling, and it was plain from what she had explained that the money was urgently needed for the protection of the State against enemies both internal and external. My own position was unique. Had not Gedge shown me those official documents, which gave me concessions in the Principality of Bulgaria, I should have laughed this woman’s curious story to scorn as a piece of impossible fiction. But I had glanced over some of those papers at Denbury, and was satisfied that I had actually had many dealings with that State during the six years of my unconscious but prosperous existence. There seemed every truth in her statement that to her had been due my success in the City in the first instance.“And supposing you broke your promise and went to Scotland Yard?” she suggested at length, her eyes still fixed upon me. “What would you expect to find?”“To find?” I echoed. “I should find traces of the crime within that room.”She nodded. I had expected my words to have some confusing effect upon her, nevertheless, on the contrary, she remained perfectly calm. Her self-control was extraordinary.“And what would it profit you, pray?” she asked.“I should at least know that I had endeavoured to bring to justice those responsible for the poor fellow’s death.”“It would only be an endeavour—a vain one, I assure you.”“You mean that the secret is too well concealed ever to be revealed,” I observed quickly.“Yes,” she said; “you have guessed aright.”“And, in other words, you defy me to discover the truth?”“I have not said so. The word defy is scarcely one which should be used between us, I think, considering that our interests are to-day mutual—just as they were on the night of the crime.”“I fail to see that,” I answered. “I have no interest whatever in keeping this terrible secret hidden, for while I do so I am acting the part of accessory.”“But surely you have an interest in preserving your own life?” she urged.“Then you imply that if I were to lay information at Scotland Yard I should be in peril of my life?” I asked, looking straight into those calm eyes that ever and anon seemed full of mystery.“Of that I cannot speak with any degree of certainty,” she responded. “I would only warn you that in this matter continued silence is by far the best.”“But you have uttered a veiled threat!” I cried. “You are aware of the whole facts, and yet refuse to impart to me the simple information of the whereabouts of Mrs Anson. Do you think it possible in such a case that I can entertain any confidence in you, or in your extraordinary story regarding the affairs of Bulgaria and its Prince?”“I am unable to give you any information regarding the lady you mention,” she replied, with a slight frown of annoyance.“But you are acquainted with her?”“I may be—what then?”“I demand to know where she is.”“And in reply I tell you that I am in ignorance.”“In that case,” I said angrily, “I refuse to have any further dealings whatsoever with you. From the first I became drawn into a trap by you, bound down and for six years held silent by your threats. But, madam, I now tell you plainly of my intentions. I mean to-morrow to lay the whole facts before the Director of Criminal Investigations, including this story of yours regarding the Prince and his people.”She rose slowly from her chair, perfectly calm, her dignity unruffled. Her manner was absolutely perfect. Had she been a princess herself she could not have treated my sudden ebullition of anger with greater disdain.She gathered up the papers she had put before me, and, replacing them in the dispatch-box, locked it with the golden master-key upon her bangle.Afterwards, she turned to me and said, in a hard distinct voice—“Then I understand that I have to inform His Serene Highness that you refuse to assist him further?”“Tell him whatever you choose, madam,” I answered, rising and taking up my hat and cane. “I shall, in future, act according to my own inclinations.”“And at your own risk!” she added, in a harsh voice, as, bowing stiffly before her, I turned towards the door.“Yes, madam,” I answered; “I accept your challenge—at my own risk.”
“Well,” I inquired at last; “and your reason for seeing me this evening?”
She hesitated, as though uncertain in what manner to place her project before me. She moved uneasily, and, rising, drew forth a large dispatch-box from its leathern case and placed it upon the table. I noticed that the outer case bore a count’s coronet with a cipher beneath.
Having opened the box with a tiny gold master-key which hung upon her bracelet, she drew forth some official-looking papers, and with them returned to her chair.
“You have already been entrusted with a secret, which you have not betrayed—the secret of that unfortunate occurrence on the evening when accident first brought us together,” she commenced gravely. “Therefore I feel convinced that any further confidence placed in you will not be abused.”
“I am honoured to think, madam, that you should entertain such an opinion of me,” I said, not, however, without the slightest touch of sarcasm.
I did not forget that she had only rescued me from my enemies in return for my silence. She was not a woman to act without strong motives. Moreover, she had admitted knowledge of that strange midnight crime at The Boltons, and was, therefore, an accessory after the fact.
“You are the Prince’s confidential agent here, in London, and I come to you on a mission direct from His Serene Highness.”
“From Bulgaria?” I inquired.
“Yes. I left Sofia a week ago,” she answered. “It was at first proposed to place the matter in the hands of Guéchoff, our diplomatic representative at the Court of St. James’s, but, on consideration, His Serene Highness, knowing that with the present state of high feeling in the Sobranje a single hint leaking out might prove disastrous, to the dynasty, and perhaps to the nation, resolved to place the matter unreservedly in my hands. The Prince did me the honour of referring in terms of praise to my previous dealings with you, and instructed me to lose no time in seeing you and invoking your aid.”
“In what direction?” Was it not amazing that I should awake from my years of unconsciousness to find myself so powerful in the world of finance that reigning princes sought my assistance?
“I have here a letter from His Serene Highness;” and she handed me a note which bore the Bulgarian royal arms, and had apparently been written by the Prince’s own hand. It was merely a formal note asking me to consider the secret proposals which would be placed before me by the bearer.
“Well?” I inquired, when I had read it. “Explain.”
“Briefly,” she said, “the facts are as follows: The throne of Bulgaria, never very safe owing to the eternal bickering between St. Petersburg and the Porte, is at this moment in imminent danger. The People’s Party in the Sobranje have been defeated, and the police have learnt of a projected popular uprising against His Highness in favour of a republic, the agitation being, of course, caused by paid agents of Russia. It is an open secret that Russia, at the first sign of an outbreak, would endeavour to annex the country, hence the position of the throne grows each moment more perilous. Fear of giving offence to Russia prevents orders being issued for the arrest of the secret agitators, and it seems therefore as though a revolution cannot long be delayed. It is your aid His Serene Highness seeks—your aid to negotiate a loan of half a million sterling.”
“Half a million!” I ejaculated. “A large sum! It seems incredible that I should be a dealer in millions.”
“A large sum, certainly, but you can easily obtain it,” she quickly assured me. “I have all the necessary preliminaries of the securities here;” and she pointed to the pile of papers at her side.
“I take it that the money is required for the Prince’s private purse?”
“No; solely for defence—to purchase arms and ammunition; to pay the army the arrears due, so as to secure their support in case of an outbreak, and to pay certain heavy sums as secret-service money. All this is imperative in order to save the country from falling into the hands of Russia. But it must be done, of course, in strictest secrecy, His Highness, as I have already explained, hesitated to entrust the matter to his recognised minister here because the spies of Russia are everywhere, and if any knowledge of his intentions leaked out it would be fatal to his plans.”
“And so he trusts me!” I said, smiling.
“He does, absolutely.”
“And where does His Highness think that I am going to get half a million of money from at a moment’s notice, pray?” I asked with a smile.
“With these in your possession there will be no difficulty,” she responded coolly, indicating the papers. “There is not a financial agent in the City of London who would not be only too delighted to, without its intentions being known.”
“But you say it is all a secret,” I observed. “How do you think it possible that I can raise such a loan without its intentions being known?”
She laughed outright.
“The money, you will find from the documents here, is ostensibly for the construction of a new railway from Philippopolis, by the Shipka to Rustchuk. The plans are here, properly prepared, so that you need have no hesitation in showing them to any railway engineer.”
I saw that she had been trained in a school of clever diplomacy.
“And you say that security will be given?”
“Certainly. The proposal is to give the customs receipts. They would be ample. Failing that, it is probable that the Princess’s jewels, which, as you know, include some of the finest pearls in Europe, might be available. Of the latter, however, I am not sure.”
I remained silent, turning over the papers she had passed across to me. They were mostly in French, and, therefore, easily understood. The documents related to “the long projected scheme of constructing a railway from Philippopolis to Eski Saghra, thence across the Shipka to Rasgrad, joining the line already in operation between Varna and Rustchuk.” Appended were official declarations from the Bulgarian Minister of Finance, countersigned by the Prince himself.
The documents were certainly very ingeniously contrived so as to conceal the real purpose of the loan. I remarked this, and my companion, laughing lightly, said—
“Deception, to some extent, is always necessary in delicate diplomacy.”
The discovery that the mysterious woman—whose name she had withheld from me—was actually a secret agent of the autonomous Principality created by the Berlin Treaty—that turbulent State mostly notable for the assassination of its Ministers—was entirely unlooked for. On the night when accident had thrown us together, and she had smoothed my brow with her cool hand, I had believed her to be a young girl who had taken pity upon me in my helplessness; but the revelations she had made during that half-hour showed that there had been some firm purpose underlying it all.
She alone knew the truth of that tragic occurrence at The Boltons, and I saw that in this matter I had to deal with a very clever and ingenious woman.
I had now a double purpose in life—to discover Mabel, and to elucidate the mystery of the crime. Towards that end I intended to strive, and as I sat with my glance fixed upon those mysterious grey eyes, I endeavoured to form some plan of action.
“Madam,” I said gravely, at last, “as you appear not to place sufficient confidence in me to tell me your name, I regret that I can place no confidence in these documents.”
“My name!” she laughed. “Ah, of course; I had quite forgotten. There is no secret about it;” and from her purse she drew forth a folded, much-worn blue paper, which she handed to me.
It was an English passport, bearing the name of “Lucy Edna Grainger.”
“Grainger?” I repeated. “Then you are English?”
“Yes, I am legally a British subject, because my father was English. I was, however, born abroad.”
A silence fell between us. The roar of the traffic in Piccadilly came up from below; the summer night was warm, and the window stood open. At last I determined upon a bold course.
“Now that we have met,” I said, “I wish to ask you one or two questions. First, I am desirous of knowing the whereabouts of Mrs Anson and her daughter.”
I was watching her narrowly, and saw her give a distinct start at my mention of the same. Next instant, however, she recovered herself, and with marvellous tact repeated—
“Anson? Anson? I have no acquaintance with any person of that name.”
I smiled.
“I think it unnecessary that you should deny this, when the truth is so very plain,” I observed sarcastically. “You will, perhaps, next deny that a young man was foully murdered within that house in The Boltons; that you were present, and that you are aware of the identity of those who committed the crime?”
The pallor of her cheeks showed plainly that I had recalled unwelcome memories.
“The unfortunate affair is all of the past,” she said hoarsely. “Why need we discuss it?”
“In the interests of justice,” I answered, with firm determination.
“Have you not agreed to remain silent? Have you not, as recompense, received back your sight, and become enriched beyond your wildest dreams? Surely you, at least, should not complain.”
“I complain of the manner in which the secret of the crime has been preserved,” I said. “I have determined, however, that it shall remain secret no longer.”
“You would inform the police!” she gasped, for the moment unable to conceal her alarm.
“If you have no knowledge of Mrs Anson, then I intend to invoke the aid of Scotland Yard in order to discover her.”
My words perplexed her. That she was acquainted with the Ansons I had no doubt, and I was likewise certain that she would never risk information being given to the police. More than once in the days long past I had entertained a shrewd suspicion that she herself was the actual murderer of that young unknown man. I looked at her pale face, and vaguely wondered again whether such were the truth.
The fact that she had secured my silence in return for my life as an outcome of that most ingenious conspiracy had seemed to me proof conclusive of her guilt, and now that we had met in those strange circumstances the idea became impressed upon me more forcibly than ever.
What might be her real position in the secret diplomacy of Bulgaria I knew not. It was evident that considerable confidence was reposed in her. She had come to me with a cool demand to raise a loan of half a million sterling, and it was plain from what she had explained that the money was urgently needed for the protection of the State against enemies both internal and external. My own position was unique. Had not Gedge shown me those official documents, which gave me concessions in the Principality of Bulgaria, I should have laughed this woman’s curious story to scorn as a piece of impossible fiction. But I had glanced over some of those papers at Denbury, and was satisfied that I had actually had many dealings with that State during the six years of my unconscious but prosperous existence. There seemed every truth in her statement that to her had been due my success in the City in the first instance.
“And supposing you broke your promise and went to Scotland Yard?” she suggested at length, her eyes still fixed upon me. “What would you expect to find?”
“To find?” I echoed. “I should find traces of the crime within that room.”
She nodded. I had expected my words to have some confusing effect upon her, nevertheless, on the contrary, she remained perfectly calm. Her self-control was extraordinary.
“And what would it profit you, pray?” she asked.
“I should at least know that I had endeavoured to bring to justice those responsible for the poor fellow’s death.”
“It would only be an endeavour—a vain one, I assure you.”
“You mean that the secret is too well concealed ever to be revealed,” I observed quickly.
“Yes,” she said; “you have guessed aright.”
“And, in other words, you defy me to discover the truth?”
“I have not said so. The word defy is scarcely one which should be used between us, I think, considering that our interests are to-day mutual—just as they were on the night of the crime.”
“I fail to see that,” I answered. “I have no interest whatever in keeping this terrible secret hidden, for while I do so I am acting the part of accessory.”
“But surely you have an interest in preserving your own life?” she urged.
“Then you imply that if I were to lay information at Scotland Yard I should be in peril of my life?” I asked, looking straight into those calm eyes that ever and anon seemed full of mystery.
“Of that I cannot speak with any degree of certainty,” she responded. “I would only warn you that in this matter continued silence is by far the best.”
“But you have uttered a veiled threat!” I cried. “You are aware of the whole facts, and yet refuse to impart to me the simple information of the whereabouts of Mrs Anson. Do you think it possible in such a case that I can entertain any confidence in you, or in your extraordinary story regarding the affairs of Bulgaria and its Prince?”
“I am unable to give you any information regarding the lady you mention,” she replied, with a slight frown of annoyance.
“But you are acquainted with her?”
“I may be—what then?”
“I demand to know where she is.”
“And in reply I tell you that I am in ignorance.”
“In that case,” I said angrily, “I refuse to have any further dealings whatsoever with you. From the first I became drawn into a trap by you, bound down and for six years held silent by your threats. But, madam, I now tell you plainly of my intentions. I mean to-morrow to lay the whole facts before the Director of Criminal Investigations, including this story of yours regarding the Prince and his people.”
She rose slowly from her chair, perfectly calm, her dignity unruffled. Her manner was absolutely perfect. Had she been a princess herself she could not have treated my sudden ebullition of anger with greater disdain.
She gathered up the papers she had put before me, and, replacing them in the dispatch-box, locked it with the golden master-key upon her bangle.
Afterwards, she turned to me and said, in a hard distinct voice—
“Then I understand that I have to inform His Serene Highness that you refuse to assist him further?”
“Tell him whatever you choose, madam,” I answered, rising and taking up my hat and cane. “I shall, in future, act according to my own inclinations.”
“And at your own risk!” she added, in a harsh voice, as, bowing stiffly before her, I turned towards the door.
“Yes, madam,” I answered; “I accept your challenge—at my own risk.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.More Scheming.The mellow summer twilight was fast deepening into night as I strode along Piccadilly towards the Circus, after leaving the grey-eyed woman who held the secret.What she had revealed to me was startling, yet the one fact which caused me more apprehension than all others was the curious means by which she had discovered my whereabouts. If she had been enabled to do this, then the police would, no doubt, very soon find me and return me to my so-called “friends.”In despair I thought of Mabel. Long ago I had surrendered my whole heart to her. She had at first placed a strong and high-minded confidence in me, judging me by her own lofty spirit, but that unaccountable rupture had occurred, and she had gone from me crushed and heart-broken. In my pocket I carried her letter, and the more I thought over it the more puzzled I became. Daily, hourly, I lamented over the broken and shattered fragments of all that was fairest on earth; I had been borne at once from calm, lofty, and delighted speculations into the very heart of fear and tribulations. My love for her was now ranked by myself as a fond record which I must erase for ever from my heart and brain. Once I had thought to link my destiny with hers; but, alas! I could not now marry her, nor could I reveal to her, knowing them not, the mysterious influences which had changed the whole current of my life and purposes. My secret burden was that of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief.The whole of the events swept past me like a torrent which hurried along in its dark and restless course all those about me towards some overwhelming catastrophe. Tormented by remorseful doubts and pursued by distraction, I felt assured that Mabel, in her unresisting tenderness, her mournful sweetness, her virgin innocence, was doomed to perish by that relentless power which had linked her destiny with crime and contest in which she had no part but as a sufferer. It is, alas! the property of crime to extend its mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessing over many that deserve them not.Plunged in that sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, and of terrors, I reflected upon all that the woman Edna had told me. It seemed inconceivable that Bulgaria’s ruler should demand assistance of me—and yet it was undoubtedly true.Presently I turned down the Haymarket, still walking slowly, deep in reflection.Should I inform the police? Very calmly I thought it over. My first impulse was to go to Scotland Yard and make a plain statement of the whole facts, laying stress upon the suspicion against the woman Grainger as an accessory. Yet when I came to consider the result of such action I saw with dismay that my lips were sealed. Such statement could only reflect upon myself. First, I should, by going to Scotland Yard, be compelled to reveal my own identity, which would mean my return to Denbury; secondly, I could give no account of those six lost years of my life; and, thirdly, the statement of one believed not to be exactly responsible for his actions must be regarded with but little credence.No, circumstances themselves had conspired to hold me to silence.I went on in blind despair towards my hotel.Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from which her letter had been dated.After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until June 5, when they paid their bill and left suddenly.I glanced at Mabel’s letter. It was dated June 4. She had left on the following day. I could learn nothing further.In an excited, unsettled state of mind, unable to decide how to act, I returned to London, and then, out of sheer want of something to do, I travelled down to Heaton. The old place was the same: neglected and deserted, but full of memories of days bygone. Old Baxter and his wife were both dead, and the caretakers were fresh servants whom my agent had apparently engaged. I also learnt that Parker, the faithful old woman who had tended to my wants in Essex Street, had also passed away more than two years before.I spent a dismal day wandering through the house and park, then drove back to Tewkesbury, and on the following morning returned to London. In the six years that had elapsed since my last visit to the Manor nothing had changed save, perhaps, that the grass had grown more luxuriantly over the gravelled drive, and the stone exterior was being gradually rendered grey by the lichen which in those parts overgrows everything.The mystery of the crime, and of the singular events which had followed, formed an enigma which seemed utterly beyond solution.My nerves were shattered. As the days went by an increasing desire possessed me to ascertain more of that woman who called herself Grainger and was the confidential emissary of a reigning prince. She alone knew the truth, therefore why should I not carefully watch her movements, and endeavour to discover her intentions? From the veiled threat she had muttered, it was evident that although she did not fear any revelations that I might make, yet she regarded me as a person detrimental to her interests. As long as I had acted as her agent in negotiating loans for the Principality, she had secured for me high favour in the eyes of Prince Ferdinand. But the fact that I had gained consciousness and refused to assist her further had taken her completely by surprise.That same evening I called at theBath Hotel, and ascertained that “Mrs Grainger” had left some days before. She had not, it appeared, given any address where letters might be forwarded, but a judicious tip administered to a hall-porter caused him suddenly to recollect that a couple of days before her departure she had sent a dressing-bag to a trunk-maker’s a little further down Piccadilly, to be repaired. This bag had not been returned to the hotel, therefore it was quite probable, thought the hall-porter, that the trunk-maker had forwarded it to her.“You know the people at the trunk-maker’s, of course?” I said.“Yes, sir. Many visitors here want repairs done to their boxes and bags.”“TheBath Hotelis therefore a good customer?” I remarked. “They would certainly give you her address if you asked for it.”He seemed a trifle dubious, but at my request went along to the shop, and a quarter of an hour later returned with an address.She had not moved far, it appeared. Only to theMidland Hotelat St. Pancras.Late that night I myself left theGrand, and, assuming a name that was not my own, took a room at theMidland, in order to commence my observations upon her movements. It was certainly a risky business, for I knew not when I might encounter her in the vestibule, in the lift, or in the public rooms. As soon as my room was assigned to me, I glanced through the list eagerly, but it was evident that if she were there she, too, had changed her name. In the long list of visitors was one, that of Mrs Slade. Slade? The name was familiar. It was that of the doctor who had given me back my sight. That name struck me as being the most probable. She occupied a room on the same floor as mine, numbered 406. The door of that room I intended to watch.My vigilance on the morrow was rewarded, for about eleven o’clock in the morning I saw Edna emerge from the room dressed to go out. She passed my door and descended by the stairs, while I took my hat and swiftly followed her at a safe distance from observation.The porter called her a hansom, and I saw her neat, black-robed figure mount into the conveyance. She had a letter in her hand, and read the address to the porter, who in turn repeated it to the driver.Meanwhile, I had entered another cab, and telling the man to keep Edna’s cab in sight, we drove along King’s Cross Road and Farringdon Street to the City, passing along Gresham Street and Lothbury. Suddenly the cab I was following turned into Austin Friars, while my driver, an intelligent young fellow, pulled up at the corner of Throgmorton Street and said—“We’d better wait here, sir, if you don’t want the lady to notice us. She’s going into an office at number 14, opposite the Dutch Church.”“Get down,” I said, “and try and find out whose office she’s gone into,” and I added a promise to give him an extra gratuity for so doing.“Very well, sir,” he answered. I sat back, hiding my face in a newspaper for fear of being recognised in that great highway of business, while he went along Austin Friars to endeavour to discover whose offices she had entered.Some ten minutes later he returned with the information that the lady had entered the office of a moneylender named Morrison.The thought occurred to me that she was perhaps still endeavouring to raise the loan for Prince Ferdinand. If so, however, why had she left theBath Hoteland endeavoured to conceal her identity under another name?After twenty minutes or so she came out rather flushed and excited, stood for a moment in hesitation upon the kerb, and then giving her cabman an address was driven off. I, of course, followed, but judge my astonishment when the cab pulled up in Old Broad Street and she alighted at Winchester House. After a few moments she found the brass plate bearing my name, and ascending to my office, for what purpose I knew not, and, fearing to reveal my presence in London, I could not ascertain.I sat there in the cab in full view of that row of windows, with their wire blinds bearing my name, an exile and a fugitive, wondering what might be the object of her visit. It was not, however, of long duration, but when she descended again she was accompanied by my secretary Gedge, who handed her into her cab and afterwards took his seat beside her. By his manner it was evident they were not strangers, and it became impressed upon me that, in those lost days of mine, I must have had considerable dealings with her and her princely employer.They drove to the Liverpool Street Railway-Station, where she dispatched a telegram; then they lunched at Crosby Hall.I feared, of courser to approach them sufficiently near to overhear their conversation, but I peered into the restaurant and saw them sitting at a table in earnest conversation, the subject of which was evidently myself.It was a wearisome task waiting for her in Bishopsgate Street, but I lunched in a neighbouring public-house off a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while my cabman partook gladly of the homely “half-pint” at my expense, until at length they both came forth.Gedge called her a cab, and then took leave of her, while I followed her back to theMidland, having successfully accomplished my first essay at watching her movements.
The mellow summer twilight was fast deepening into night as I strode along Piccadilly towards the Circus, after leaving the grey-eyed woman who held the secret.
What she had revealed to me was startling, yet the one fact which caused me more apprehension than all others was the curious means by which she had discovered my whereabouts. If she had been enabled to do this, then the police would, no doubt, very soon find me and return me to my so-called “friends.”
In despair I thought of Mabel. Long ago I had surrendered my whole heart to her. She had at first placed a strong and high-minded confidence in me, judging me by her own lofty spirit, but that unaccountable rupture had occurred, and she had gone from me crushed and heart-broken. In my pocket I carried her letter, and the more I thought over it the more puzzled I became. Daily, hourly, I lamented over the broken and shattered fragments of all that was fairest on earth; I had been borne at once from calm, lofty, and delighted speculations into the very heart of fear and tribulations. My love for her was now ranked by myself as a fond record which I must erase for ever from my heart and brain. Once I had thought to link my destiny with hers; but, alas! I could not now marry her, nor could I reveal to her, knowing them not, the mysterious influences which had changed the whole current of my life and purposes. My secret burden was that of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief.
The whole of the events swept past me like a torrent which hurried along in its dark and restless course all those about me towards some overwhelming catastrophe. Tormented by remorseful doubts and pursued by distraction, I felt assured that Mabel, in her unresisting tenderness, her mournful sweetness, her virgin innocence, was doomed to perish by that relentless power which had linked her destiny with crime and contest in which she had no part but as a sufferer. It is, alas! the property of crime to extend its mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessing over many that deserve them not.
Plunged in that sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, and of terrors, I reflected upon all that the woman Edna had told me. It seemed inconceivable that Bulgaria’s ruler should demand assistance of me—and yet it was undoubtedly true.
Presently I turned down the Haymarket, still walking slowly, deep in reflection.
Should I inform the police? Very calmly I thought it over. My first impulse was to go to Scotland Yard and make a plain statement of the whole facts, laying stress upon the suspicion against the woman Grainger as an accessory. Yet when I came to consider the result of such action I saw with dismay that my lips were sealed. Such statement could only reflect upon myself. First, I should, by going to Scotland Yard, be compelled to reveal my own identity, which would mean my return to Denbury; secondly, I could give no account of those six lost years of my life; and, thirdly, the statement of one believed not to be exactly responsible for his actions must be regarded with but little credence.
No, circumstances themselves had conspired to hold me to silence.
I went on in blind despair towards my hotel.
Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from which her letter had been dated.
After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until June 5, when they paid their bill and left suddenly.
I glanced at Mabel’s letter. It was dated June 4. She had left on the following day. I could learn nothing further.
In an excited, unsettled state of mind, unable to decide how to act, I returned to London, and then, out of sheer want of something to do, I travelled down to Heaton. The old place was the same: neglected and deserted, but full of memories of days bygone. Old Baxter and his wife were both dead, and the caretakers were fresh servants whom my agent had apparently engaged. I also learnt that Parker, the faithful old woman who had tended to my wants in Essex Street, had also passed away more than two years before.
I spent a dismal day wandering through the house and park, then drove back to Tewkesbury, and on the following morning returned to London. In the six years that had elapsed since my last visit to the Manor nothing had changed save, perhaps, that the grass had grown more luxuriantly over the gravelled drive, and the stone exterior was being gradually rendered grey by the lichen which in those parts overgrows everything.
The mystery of the crime, and of the singular events which had followed, formed an enigma which seemed utterly beyond solution.
My nerves were shattered. As the days went by an increasing desire possessed me to ascertain more of that woman who called herself Grainger and was the confidential emissary of a reigning prince. She alone knew the truth, therefore why should I not carefully watch her movements, and endeavour to discover her intentions? From the veiled threat she had muttered, it was evident that although she did not fear any revelations that I might make, yet she regarded me as a person detrimental to her interests. As long as I had acted as her agent in negotiating loans for the Principality, she had secured for me high favour in the eyes of Prince Ferdinand. But the fact that I had gained consciousness and refused to assist her further had taken her completely by surprise.
That same evening I called at theBath Hotel, and ascertained that “Mrs Grainger” had left some days before. She had not, it appeared, given any address where letters might be forwarded, but a judicious tip administered to a hall-porter caused him suddenly to recollect that a couple of days before her departure she had sent a dressing-bag to a trunk-maker’s a little further down Piccadilly, to be repaired. This bag had not been returned to the hotel, therefore it was quite probable, thought the hall-porter, that the trunk-maker had forwarded it to her.
“You know the people at the trunk-maker’s, of course?” I said.
“Yes, sir. Many visitors here want repairs done to their boxes and bags.”
“TheBath Hotelis therefore a good customer?” I remarked. “They would certainly give you her address if you asked for it.”
He seemed a trifle dubious, but at my request went along to the shop, and a quarter of an hour later returned with an address.
She had not moved far, it appeared. Only to theMidland Hotelat St. Pancras.
Late that night I myself left theGrand, and, assuming a name that was not my own, took a room at theMidland, in order to commence my observations upon her movements. It was certainly a risky business, for I knew not when I might encounter her in the vestibule, in the lift, or in the public rooms. As soon as my room was assigned to me, I glanced through the list eagerly, but it was evident that if she were there she, too, had changed her name. In the long list of visitors was one, that of Mrs Slade. Slade? The name was familiar. It was that of the doctor who had given me back my sight. That name struck me as being the most probable. She occupied a room on the same floor as mine, numbered 406. The door of that room I intended to watch.
My vigilance on the morrow was rewarded, for about eleven o’clock in the morning I saw Edna emerge from the room dressed to go out. She passed my door and descended by the stairs, while I took my hat and swiftly followed her at a safe distance from observation.
The porter called her a hansom, and I saw her neat, black-robed figure mount into the conveyance. She had a letter in her hand, and read the address to the porter, who in turn repeated it to the driver.
Meanwhile, I had entered another cab, and telling the man to keep Edna’s cab in sight, we drove along King’s Cross Road and Farringdon Street to the City, passing along Gresham Street and Lothbury. Suddenly the cab I was following turned into Austin Friars, while my driver, an intelligent young fellow, pulled up at the corner of Throgmorton Street and said—
“We’d better wait here, sir, if you don’t want the lady to notice us. She’s going into an office at number 14, opposite the Dutch Church.”
“Get down,” I said, “and try and find out whose office she’s gone into,” and I added a promise to give him an extra gratuity for so doing.
“Very well, sir,” he answered. I sat back, hiding my face in a newspaper for fear of being recognised in that great highway of business, while he went along Austin Friars to endeavour to discover whose offices she had entered.
Some ten minutes later he returned with the information that the lady had entered the office of a moneylender named Morrison.
The thought occurred to me that she was perhaps still endeavouring to raise the loan for Prince Ferdinand. If so, however, why had she left theBath Hoteland endeavoured to conceal her identity under another name?
After twenty minutes or so she came out rather flushed and excited, stood for a moment in hesitation upon the kerb, and then giving her cabman an address was driven off. I, of course, followed, but judge my astonishment when the cab pulled up in Old Broad Street and she alighted at Winchester House. After a few moments she found the brass plate bearing my name, and ascending to my office, for what purpose I knew not, and, fearing to reveal my presence in London, I could not ascertain.
I sat there in the cab in full view of that row of windows, with their wire blinds bearing my name, an exile and a fugitive, wondering what might be the object of her visit. It was not, however, of long duration, but when she descended again she was accompanied by my secretary Gedge, who handed her into her cab and afterwards took his seat beside her. By his manner it was evident they were not strangers, and it became impressed upon me that, in those lost days of mine, I must have had considerable dealings with her and her princely employer.
They drove to the Liverpool Street Railway-Station, where she dispatched a telegram; then they lunched at Crosby Hall.
I feared, of courser to approach them sufficiently near to overhear their conversation, but I peered into the restaurant and saw them sitting at a table in earnest conversation, the subject of which was evidently myself.
It was a wearisome task waiting for her in Bishopsgate Street, but I lunched in a neighbouring public-house off a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while my cabman partook gladly of the homely “half-pint” at my expense, until at length they both came forth.
Gedge called her a cab, and then took leave of her, while I followed her back to theMidland, having successfully accomplished my first essay at watching her movements.
Chapter Twenty Eight.Two Words.For two days the woman I was watching did not go out. I learnt from the chambermaid who, like all her class, was amenable to half a sovereign in her palm, that she was unwell, suffering from a slight cold. Then I took the servant into my confidence, and told her that I was in the hotel in order to watch Mrs Slade’s movements, giving her to understand that any assistance she rendered me would be well paid for.I had an object in view, namely, to enter her room in her absence, and ascertain the nature of any letters or papers which might be in her possession. This I managed to effect, with the connivance of the chambermaid, on the following afternoon. Indeed, the chambermaid assisted me in my eager search, but beyond a few tradesmen’s bills and one or two unimportant private letters from friends addressed to her at theRoyal Hotelat Ryde, I found nothing. The dispatch-box with the coronet was locked, and she carried the key upon her bangle. I made careful search through all her belongings, the chambermaid standing guard at the door the while, and in the pocket of one of her dresses hanging in the wardrobe I discovered a crumpled telegram.I smoothed it out, and saw that it had been dispatched from Philippopolis, in Bulgaria, about three weeks before, and was addressed to “Mrs Grainger,Royal Hotel, Ryde.” Its purport, however, I was unable to learn, for it was either in cipher, or in the Slav language, of which I had no knowledge whatever.Again baffled, I was about to relinquish my search, when, in the pocket of a long driving-coat of a light drab cloth, I found a letter addressed to her at Ryde, and evidently forwarded by the hotel-clerk.I caught sight of my own name, and read it through with interest.“I suppose you have already heard from your friend Gedge, who keeps you in touch with everything, all the most recent news of Heaton,” the letter ran. “It appears that he was found on the floor of one of the rooms at Denbury, with a wound in his head. He had suddenly gone out of his mind. The doctor said that the case was a serious one, but before arrangements could be made for placing him under restraint he had escaped, and nothing since has been heard of him. The common idea is that he has committed suicide owing to business complications. They are, to tell the truth, beginning to smell a rat in the City. The Prince’s concessions have not turned out all that they were supposed to be, and by a side wind I hear that your friend’s financial status, considerably weakened during the past few weeks, has, owing to his sudden and unaccountable disappearance, dropped down to zero. If you can find him, lose no time in doing so. Remember that he must not be allowed to open his mouth. He may, however, be still of use, for his credit has not altogether gone, and I hear he has a very satisfactory balance at his bankers. But find out all from Gedge, and then write to me.”There was neither signature nor address.The words, “he must not be allowed to open his mouth,” were, in themselves, ominous. Who, I wondered, was the writer of that letter? The postmark was that of “London, E.C.,” showing that it had been posted in the City.I read it through a second time, then replaced it, and after some further search returned to my own room.When the maid brought my hot water next morning she told me that Mrs Slade had announced her intention to leave at eleven o’clock; therefore I packed, and leaving slightly earlier, was enabled to follow her cab to Victoria Station, whence she travelled to Brighton, putting up at theMétropole. I pursued similar tactics to those I had adopted in London, staying in the same hotel and yet contriving never to be seen by her. She went out but seldom. Sometimes in the morning she would stroll beneath her pale mauve sunshade along the King’s Road, or at evening take an airing on the pier, but she apparently lived an aimless life, spending her time in reading novels in her own apartment. As far as I could learn, she met no one there, and only appeared to be killing time and waiting. After a fortnight she moved along to Hastings, thence to Ilfracombe, and afterwards to Hull.We arrived at theNorth-Eastern Hotelat Hull one evening towards the end of August, having travelled by the express from London. Through nearly a month I had kept close watch upon her, yet none of her movements had been in the least suspicious. She lived well, always having her own sitting-room, although she had no maid. Those days of watchfulness were full of anxiety, and I had to resort to all sorts of ingenious devices to prevent observation and recognition.The station hotel at Hull is comfortable, but by no means a gay place of residence, and for several days I wondered what might be her object in visiting that Yorkshire port. The room adjoining her sitting-room on the second floor became vacant on the third day after our arrival, and I fortunately succeeded in obtaining it. She entertained no suspicion that I was following her, although I dogged her movements everywhere.In Hull she only went out twice, once to a stationer’s in Whitefriar-gate, and on the other occasion to the telegraph office. As at Brighton and Ilfracombe, she still appeared to be waiting in patience for the arrival of some one whom she expected.About nine o’clock one evening, after she had remained nearly a week in Hull, always taking her meals in her own room and passing her time in reading, I had returned from the coffee-room, and was about to go forth for a stroll, when suddenly I heard a waiter rap at her door and announce a visitor.A locked door separated her sitting-room from mine, and standing by it, listening eagerly, I heard the sound of rustling paper, the hurried closing of a box, and her permission to show the visitor up.A few minutes passed in silence. Then I heard some one enter, and a man’s voice exclaimed with a distinctly foreign accent—“Ah, my dear Edna! At last! I feared that you would have left before my arrival.”“I expected you days ago,” she answered, and I knew from the man’s sigh that he had sunk wearily into a chair.“I was delayed,” he explained. “I had a narrow escape. Oustromoff has guessed the truth.”“What?” she gasped in alarm, “The secret is out?”“Yes,” he answered gruffly.“Impossible!”“I tell you it’s the truth,” he answered. “I escaped over the frontier by the merest chance. Oustromoff’s bloodhounds were at my heels. They followed me to Vienna, but there I managed to escape them and travel to Berlin. I knew that there was a warrant out for me—Roesch sent me word that orders had been issued by the Minister of Police—therefore I feared to cross to England by any of the mail routes. I knew the police would be on the look-out at Calais, Antwerp, Ostend, Folkestone, and Dieppe. Therefore I travelled to Copenhagen, thence by steamer to Gothenburg, and rail to Christiania. I arrived by the weekly mail steamer from there only an hour ago.”“What a journey!” exclaimed the woman I had been watching so long and patiently. “Do you actually mean that you are unsafe—here, in England?”“Unsafe? Of course. The Ministry have telegraphed my description to all police centres, with a request for my extradition.”“It is inconceivable,” she cried, “just at the moment when all seemed safest, that this catastrophe should fall! What of Roesch, Blumhardt, and Schaefer?”“Schaefer was arrested in Sofia on the day I left. Blumhardt escaped to Varna, but was taken while embarking on board a cargo-boat for England. I tell you I had a narrow escape—a very narrow escape.”“Then don’t speak so loud,” she urged. “Some one might be in the next room, you know.”He rose and tried the door at which I stood. It was locked, and that apparently reassured him.“Whom do you think informed the Ministry of Police?”“Ah! at present no one knows,” he responded. “What do you think they say?”“What?”“That some of your precious friends in London have exposed the whole thing.”“My friends? Whom do you mean?”“You know best who are your friends,” he replied, with sarcasm.“But no one is aware of the whole facts.”“Are you absolutely certain?”“Absolutely.”“And the loan for the Prince?” he said. “Have you raised it?”“No; the thing is too dangerous in these circumstances. I have made a full report. You received it, I suppose?”“No; I must have left Sofia before it arrived. Tell me.”“That very useful fool named Heaton has suddenly gone out of his mind.”“Insane?”“Yes,” she responded. “At least, he seems so to me. I placed the matter before him, but he refused to have anything whatever to do with it. His standing in the City has been utterly shattered by all sorts of rumours regarding the worthlessness of certain of the concessions, and as far as we are concerned our hopes of successfully raising the loan have now disappeared into thin air.”“What!” he cried. “Have you utterly failed?”“Yes,” she answered. “Heaton assisted us while all was square, but now, just when we want a snug little sum for ourselves, he has suddenly become obstinate and refuses to raise a finger.”“Curse him! He shall assist us—by Heaven! I’ll—I’ll compel him!” cried her mysterious companion furiously.“To talk like that is useless,” she responded. “Remember that he knows something.”“Something, yes. But what?”“He knows more than we think.”“Where is he now?”“Nobody can discover. I saw him once, but he has disappeared. They say he’s a wandering lunatic. He left Denbury suddenly after showing signs of madness, and although that terror of a woman, his wife, strove to trace him, she was unsuccessful. His insanity, coupled with the fact that financial ruin overtook him suddenly, apparently preyed upon her mind. She fell ill, and according to a letter I received from Gedge a few days ago, she died suddenly of an aneurism, and was buried last Thursday at Budleigh-Salterton. The announcement of her death was in yesterday’s papers.”I listened to those words open-mouthed. My wife was dead! Then I was free!With my strained ear close to the thin wood of the door I stood breathless, fearing that they might distinguish the rapid beating of my heart.“Your ingenuity has always been extraordinary, madame,” he said reflectively, “but in this last affair you have not shown your usual tact.”“In what manner?”“His Highness places confidence in you, yet you sit idly here, and profess yourself unable to assist him.”“A warrant is out against you; nevertheless, you still consider the Prince your friend. That is curious!” she remarked, with a touch of sarcasm.“Most certainly. It was Oustromoff’s doings. His Highness is powerless to control the Ministry of Police.”“And you believe that you will be safe in England?” she inquired dubiously.“I believe so, providing that I exercise care,” he responded. “After to-night it is best that we should remain strangers—you understand?”“Of course.”“And Mrs Anson and her charge? Are they at a safe distance?”“Yes. When I met Heaton he inquired after them. He particularly wished to discover them, and of course I assisted him.”They both laughed in chorus. But her words in themselves were sufficient proof that she feared the result of our re-union. They impressed upon me the truth of my suspicion, namely, that Mabel held the key to the enigma.“What does he know?” asked the man, evidently referring to me.“He is aware of the spot where the affair took place,” she answered.“What?” gasped her companion in alarm. “That can’t be. He was stone blind, you said!”“Certainly he was. But by some means—how I can’t say—he has ascertained at least one fact.”“Did he make any remark to you?”“Of course he did. He gave me to understand that he was acquainted with the details of the whole affair.” A long silence fell between them.The mention of Mrs Anson and her charge held me breathless. The “charge” referred to was evidently Mabel. I only hoped that from this conversation I might obtain some clue to the whereabouts of my darling.“I wonder how much Heaton really does know?” observed her visitor reflectively at last.“Too much, I fear,” she answered. No doubt she recollected how I had expressed my determination to go to Scotland Yard.Again there was a prolonged pause.“Roesch has arrived in London. I must see him,” exclaimed the man.“In London? I thought he was still at his post in the Ministry at Sofia,” she said in a tone of surprise.“He was fortunate enough to obtain early intimation of Oustromoff’s intentions, and after warning me, escaped the same evening. He took steamer, I heard, from Trieste to London.”“Why associate yourself further with that man?” she urged. “Surely it will only add to the danger.”“What concerns myself likewise concerns him,” he answered rather ambiguously.“You have apparently of late become closer friends. For what reason?”“You will see later.”“With some distinctly evil purpose, I have no doubt,” she observed, “but remember that I have no further interest in any of your future schemes.”He grunted dubiously.“Now that you think our fortunes have changed you contemplate deserting us, eh?” he snapped. “A single word to the Prince and you would conclude your career rather abruptly, I’m thinking.”“Is that intended as a threat?” she inquired in a calm voice.“Take it as such, if you wish,” the man responded angrily. “Through your confounded bungling you’ve brought exposure upon us. We have only you to thank for it. You know me quite well enough to be aware that when I make threats they are never idle ones.”“And you are sufficiently well acquainted with me to know that I never run unnecessary risks.”“I know you to be a devilishly clever woman,” he said. “But in your dealings with that man Heaton you showed weakness—a coward’s weakness. All that he knows is through your own folly. You attempted to mislead him by your actions and letters, but he has, it seems, been a little too shrewd for you.”“And if he does know the truth—even, indeed, if he dared to inform the police—what direct evidence can he give, pray?” she queried. “He was blind, and therefore saw nothing. He is now mad, and nobody will believe him.”“Even though he may be an idiot his mouth is better closed,” her companion growled.His words startled me. This unseen man’s intention was apparently to make a further attempt upon my life. But I chuckled within myself. Forewarned is forearmed.Just at that moment I heard the waiter tap at the door, and opening it, announce the arrival of another visitor—a Mr Roesch.“Why, I wonder, has he sought you here?” exclaimed the man when the waiter had gone. “He must have some important news!”Next moment the door was again thrown open, and the new arrival entered.All three spoke quickly together in a foreign tongue. The man Roesch then made a brief statement, which apparently held his two companions for some moments speechless in alarm. Then again they all commenced talking in low confidential tones in that strange language—Slav I believe it was.Whatever it might have been, and although I understood no word of it, it brought back vividly to my memory the indelible recollection of the night of the tragedy at The Boltons.I listened attentively. Yes, there was no mistake—those tones were familiar. That trio of voices were the same that with my sharpened ears I had overheard conversing in the inner room immediately before the commission of the crime.I have said that my nerves were shattered. All the past was a torturing memory to me, but the quintessence of that torture was my failure to discover my love. I believed that she alone could supply the solution of the enigma, and what truth there was in that suspicion you shall duly see.The three voices continued to speak in that foreign tongue for perhaps half an hour, during which period I was unable to form any idea of the trend of the new-comer’s announcement.Then I heard the visitors taking their leave, apparently with many of those gesticulated reassurances of respect which mark the shallow foreigner. I extinguished my light and opened my door cautiously. As they passed on their way down the corridor I succeeded in obtaining a very good view of the interesting pair. They were talking together, and I distinguished the man who had first called upon Edna by his deep voice. He was a short, thick-set, black-bearded man of forty, well-dressed in black, with a heavy gold albert across his ample vest. His companion, whose name was apparently Roesch, was considerably older, about fifty-five or so, of spare build, erect, thin-faced, with long grey whiskers descending from either cheek, and shaven chin. He wore a frock-coat and silk hat, and was of a type altogether superior to his companion.The woman Grainger’s coffee was brought to her as usual in the morning, but about ten o’clock she rang again, and when the chambermaid responded, said—“Here are two letters. Post them for me in the box in the bureau, and tell them to send my bill at once. I leave at ten forty-five.”“Yes’m.” And the girl departed to post the letters.To whom, I wondered, were those letters addressed? Within my mind I strove to devise some plan whereby I could obtain a glance at the addresses. The box, however, was only at the foot of the stairs, therefore ere I could resolve upon any plan the girl had dropped them into it, and I heard her linen flounces beating along the corridor again. Those letters were in the post, and beyond my reach.She had written those two missives during the night, and after the departure of her visitors. They had, no doubt, some connexion with the matter which the trio had so earnestly discussed in that tantalising foreign tongue.In hesitancy I remained some little time, then a sudden thought occurred to me. I addressed an envelope to the hall-porter of my club, enclosing a blank sheet of paper, and then descending, posted it. The box was placed outside the bureau, and the instant I had dropped the letter in I turned, as though in anger with myself, and, entering the bureau, said to the clerk—“I’ve unfortunately posted a letter without a stamp. Have you the key of the box?”“The box belongs to the Post Office, sir,” he answered. “But we have a key to it.”“Then I should esteem it a favour if you would recover my letter for me. It is most important that the addressee should not be charged for its postage. I regret that my absent-mindedness should give you this trouble.”The clerk took the key from a drawer at the end of the bureau, and opening the box, took out the half-dozen or so letters which it contained, and spread them upon the desk. Among them were two square, pale-faced envelopes. As I took my own letter and affixed a stamp I glanced eagerly at the address of both.One bore the superscription: “Mr P. Gechkuloff, 98, King Henry’s Road, Hampstead, N.W.”Upon the other were words which caused my heart to leap joyfully within me. They were—“Miss Mabel Anson,Langham Hotel, London.”I posted my letter, hurried upstairs and paid my bill. Edna had already packed her trunk, but had changed her mind, and did not intend leaving Hull that day. I heard her inform the chambermaid of her intention of remaining, then I left the hotel, and caught the ten-forty-five express for London.
For two days the woman I was watching did not go out. I learnt from the chambermaid who, like all her class, was amenable to half a sovereign in her palm, that she was unwell, suffering from a slight cold. Then I took the servant into my confidence, and told her that I was in the hotel in order to watch Mrs Slade’s movements, giving her to understand that any assistance she rendered me would be well paid for.
I had an object in view, namely, to enter her room in her absence, and ascertain the nature of any letters or papers which might be in her possession. This I managed to effect, with the connivance of the chambermaid, on the following afternoon. Indeed, the chambermaid assisted me in my eager search, but beyond a few tradesmen’s bills and one or two unimportant private letters from friends addressed to her at theRoyal Hotelat Ryde, I found nothing. The dispatch-box with the coronet was locked, and she carried the key upon her bangle. I made careful search through all her belongings, the chambermaid standing guard at the door the while, and in the pocket of one of her dresses hanging in the wardrobe I discovered a crumpled telegram.
I smoothed it out, and saw that it had been dispatched from Philippopolis, in Bulgaria, about three weeks before, and was addressed to “Mrs Grainger,Royal Hotel, Ryde.” Its purport, however, I was unable to learn, for it was either in cipher, or in the Slav language, of which I had no knowledge whatever.
Again baffled, I was about to relinquish my search, when, in the pocket of a long driving-coat of a light drab cloth, I found a letter addressed to her at Ryde, and evidently forwarded by the hotel-clerk.
I caught sight of my own name, and read it through with interest.
“I suppose you have already heard from your friend Gedge, who keeps you in touch with everything, all the most recent news of Heaton,” the letter ran. “It appears that he was found on the floor of one of the rooms at Denbury, with a wound in his head. He had suddenly gone out of his mind. The doctor said that the case was a serious one, but before arrangements could be made for placing him under restraint he had escaped, and nothing since has been heard of him. The common idea is that he has committed suicide owing to business complications. They are, to tell the truth, beginning to smell a rat in the City. The Prince’s concessions have not turned out all that they were supposed to be, and by a side wind I hear that your friend’s financial status, considerably weakened during the past few weeks, has, owing to his sudden and unaccountable disappearance, dropped down to zero. If you can find him, lose no time in doing so. Remember that he must not be allowed to open his mouth. He may, however, be still of use, for his credit has not altogether gone, and I hear he has a very satisfactory balance at his bankers. But find out all from Gedge, and then write to me.”
There was neither signature nor address.
The words, “he must not be allowed to open his mouth,” were, in themselves, ominous. Who, I wondered, was the writer of that letter? The postmark was that of “London, E.C.,” showing that it had been posted in the City.
I read it through a second time, then replaced it, and after some further search returned to my own room.
When the maid brought my hot water next morning she told me that Mrs Slade had announced her intention to leave at eleven o’clock; therefore I packed, and leaving slightly earlier, was enabled to follow her cab to Victoria Station, whence she travelled to Brighton, putting up at theMétropole. I pursued similar tactics to those I had adopted in London, staying in the same hotel and yet contriving never to be seen by her. She went out but seldom. Sometimes in the morning she would stroll beneath her pale mauve sunshade along the King’s Road, or at evening take an airing on the pier, but she apparently lived an aimless life, spending her time in reading novels in her own apartment. As far as I could learn, she met no one there, and only appeared to be killing time and waiting. After a fortnight she moved along to Hastings, thence to Ilfracombe, and afterwards to Hull.
We arrived at theNorth-Eastern Hotelat Hull one evening towards the end of August, having travelled by the express from London. Through nearly a month I had kept close watch upon her, yet none of her movements had been in the least suspicious. She lived well, always having her own sitting-room, although she had no maid. Those days of watchfulness were full of anxiety, and I had to resort to all sorts of ingenious devices to prevent observation and recognition.
The station hotel at Hull is comfortable, but by no means a gay place of residence, and for several days I wondered what might be her object in visiting that Yorkshire port. The room adjoining her sitting-room on the second floor became vacant on the third day after our arrival, and I fortunately succeeded in obtaining it. She entertained no suspicion that I was following her, although I dogged her movements everywhere.
In Hull she only went out twice, once to a stationer’s in Whitefriar-gate, and on the other occasion to the telegraph office. As at Brighton and Ilfracombe, she still appeared to be waiting in patience for the arrival of some one whom she expected.
About nine o’clock one evening, after she had remained nearly a week in Hull, always taking her meals in her own room and passing her time in reading, I had returned from the coffee-room, and was about to go forth for a stroll, when suddenly I heard a waiter rap at her door and announce a visitor.
A locked door separated her sitting-room from mine, and standing by it, listening eagerly, I heard the sound of rustling paper, the hurried closing of a box, and her permission to show the visitor up.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then I heard some one enter, and a man’s voice exclaimed with a distinctly foreign accent—
“Ah, my dear Edna! At last! I feared that you would have left before my arrival.”
“I expected you days ago,” she answered, and I knew from the man’s sigh that he had sunk wearily into a chair.
“I was delayed,” he explained. “I had a narrow escape. Oustromoff has guessed the truth.”
“What?” she gasped in alarm, “The secret is out?”
“Yes,” he answered gruffly.
“Impossible!”
“I tell you it’s the truth,” he answered. “I escaped over the frontier by the merest chance. Oustromoff’s bloodhounds were at my heels. They followed me to Vienna, but there I managed to escape them and travel to Berlin. I knew that there was a warrant out for me—Roesch sent me word that orders had been issued by the Minister of Police—therefore I feared to cross to England by any of the mail routes. I knew the police would be on the look-out at Calais, Antwerp, Ostend, Folkestone, and Dieppe. Therefore I travelled to Copenhagen, thence by steamer to Gothenburg, and rail to Christiania. I arrived by the weekly mail steamer from there only an hour ago.”
“What a journey!” exclaimed the woman I had been watching so long and patiently. “Do you actually mean that you are unsafe—here, in England?”
“Unsafe? Of course. The Ministry have telegraphed my description to all police centres, with a request for my extradition.”
“It is inconceivable,” she cried, “just at the moment when all seemed safest, that this catastrophe should fall! What of Roesch, Blumhardt, and Schaefer?”
“Schaefer was arrested in Sofia on the day I left. Blumhardt escaped to Varna, but was taken while embarking on board a cargo-boat for England. I tell you I had a narrow escape—a very narrow escape.”
“Then don’t speak so loud,” she urged. “Some one might be in the next room, you know.”
He rose and tried the door at which I stood. It was locked, and that apparently reassured him.
“Whom do you think informed the Ministry of Police?”
“Ah! at present no one knows,” he responded. “What do you think they say?”
“What?”
“That some of your precious friends in London have exposed the whole thing.”
“My friends? Whom do you mean?”
“You know best who are your friends,” he replied, with sarcasm.
“But no one is aware of the whole facts.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the loan for the Prince?” he said. “Have you raised it?”
“No; the thing is too dangerous in these circumstances. I have made a full report. You received it, I suppose?”
“No; I must have left Sofia before it arrived. Tell me.”
“That very useful fool named Heaton has suddenly gone out of his mind.”
“Insane?”
“Yes,” she responded. “At least, he seems so to me. I placed the matter before him, but he refused to have anything whatever to do with it. His standing in the City has been utterly shattered by all sorts of rumours regarding the worthlessness of certain of the concessions, and as far as we are concerned our hopes of successfully raising the loan have now disappeared into thin air.”
“What!” he cried. “Have you utterly failed?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Heaton assisted us while all was square, but now, just when we want a snug little sum for ourselves, he has suddenly become obstinate and refuses to raise a finger.”
“Curse him! He shall assist us—by Heaven! I’ll—I’ll compel him!” cried her mysterious companion furiously.
“To talk like that is useless,” she responded. “Remember that he knows something.”
“Something, yes. But what?”
“He knows more than we think.”
“Where is he now?”
“Nobody can discover. I saw him once, but he has disappeared. They say he’s a wandering lunatic. He left Denbury suddenly after showing signs of madness, and although that terror of a woman, his wife, strove to trace him, she was unsuccessful. His insanity, coupled with the fact that financial ruin overtook him suddenly, apparently preyed upon her mind. She fell ill, and according to a letter I received from Gedge a few days ago, she died suddenly of an aneurism, and was buried last Thursday at Budleigh-Salterton. The announcement of her death was in yesterday’s papers.”
I listened to those words open-mouthed. My wife was dead! Then I was free!
With my strained ear close to the thin wood of the door I stood breathless, fearing that they might distinguish the rapid beating of my heart.
“Your ingenuity has always been extraordinary, madame,” he said reflectively, “but in this last affair you have not shown your usual tact.”
“In what manner?”
“His Highness places confidence in you, yet you sit idly here, and profess yourself unable to assist him.”
“A warrant is out against you; nevertheless, you still consider the Prince your friend. That is curious!” she remarked, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Most certainly. It was Oustromoff’s doings. His Highness is powerless to control the Ministry of Police.”
“And you believe that you will be safe in England?” she inquired dubiously.
“I believe so, providing that I exercise care,” he responded. “After to-night it is best that we should remain strangers—you understand?”
“Of course.”
“And Mrs Anson and her charge? Are they at a safe distance?”
“Yes. When I met Heaton he inquired after them. He particularly wished to discover them, and of course I assisted him.”
They both laughed in chorus. But her words in themselves were sufficient proof that she feared the result of our re-union. They impressed upon me the truth of my suspicion, namely, that Mabel held the key to the enigma.
“What does he know?” asked the man, evidently referring to me.
“He is aware of the spot where the affair took place,” she answered.
“What?” gasped her companion in alarm. “That can’t be. He was stone blind, you said!”
“Certainly he was. But by some means—how I can’t say—he has ascertained at least one fact.”
“Did he make any remark to you?”
“Of course he did. He gave me to understand that he was acquainted with the details of the whole affair.” A long silence fell between them.
The mention of Mrs Anson and her charge held me breathless. The “charge” referred to was evidently Mabel. I only hoped that from this conversation I might obtain some clue to the whereabouts of my darling.
“I wonder how much Heaton really does know?” observed her visitor reflectively at last.
“Too much, I fear,” she answered. No doubt she recollected how I had expressed my determination to go to Scotland Yard.
Again there was a prolonged pause.
“Roesch has arrived in London. I must see him,” exclaimed the man.
“In London? I thought he was still at his post in the Ministry at Sofia,” she said in a tone of surprise.
“He was fortunate enough to obtain early intimation of Oustromoff’s intentions, and after warning me, escaped the same evening. He took steamer, I heard, from Trieste to London.”
“Why associate yourself further with that man?” she urged. “Surely it will only add to the danger.”
“What concerns myself likewise concerns him,” he answered rather ambiguously.
“You have apparently of late become closer friends. For what reason?”
“You will see later.”
“With some distinctly evil purpose, I have no doubt,” she observed, “but remember that I have no further interest in any of your future schemes.”
He grunted dubiously.
“Now that you think our fortunes have changed you contemplate deserting us, eh?” he snapped. “A single word to the Prince and you would conclude your career rather abruptly, I’m thinking.”
“Is that intended as a threat?” she inquired in a calm voice.
“Take it as such, if you wish,” the man responded angrily. “Through your confounded bungling you’ve brought exposure upon us. We have only you to thank for it. You know me quite well enough to be aware that when I make threats they are never idle ones.”
“And you are sufficiently well acquainted with me to know that I never run unnecessary risks.”
“I know you to be a devilishly clever woman,” he said. “But in your dealings with that man Heaton you showed weakness—a coward’s weakness. All that he knows is through your own folly. You attempted to mislead him by your actions and letters, but he has, it seems, been a little too shrewd for you.”
“And if he does know the truth—even, indeed, if he dared to inform the police—what direct evidence can he give, pray?” she queried. “He was blind, and therefore saw nothing. He is now mad, and nobody will believe him.”
“Even though he may be an idiot his mouth is better closed,” her companion growled.
His words startled me. This unseen man’s intention was apparently to make a further attempt upon my life. But I chuckled within myself. Forewarned is forearmed.
Just at that moment I heard the waiter tap at the door, and opening it, announce the arrival of another visitor—a Mr Roesch.
“Why, I wonder, has he sought you here?” exclaimed the man when the waiter had gone. “He must have some important news!”
Next moment the door was again thrown open, and the new arrival entered.
All three spoke quickly together in a foreign tongue. The man Roesch then made a brief statement, which apparently held his two companions for some moments speechless in alarm. Then again they all commenced talking in low confidential tones in that strange language—Slav I believe it was.
Whatever it might have been, and although I understood no word of it, it brought back vividly to my memory the indelible recollection of the night of the tragedy at The Boltons.
I listened attentively. Yes, there was no mistake—those tones were familiar. That trio of voices were the same that with my sharpened ears I had overheard conversing in the inner room immediately before the commission of the crime.
I have said that my nerves were shattered. All the past was a torturing memory to me, but the quintessence of that torture was my failure to discover my love. I believed that she alone could supply the solution of the enigma, and what truth there was in that suspicion you shall duly see.
The three voices continued to speak in that foreign tongue for perhaps half an hour, during which period I was unable to form any idea of the trend of the new-comer’s announcement.
Then I heard the visitors taking their leave, apparently with many of those gesticulated reassurances of respect which mark the shallow foreigner. I extinguished my light and opened my door cautiously. As they passed on their way down the corridor I succeeded in obtaining a very good view of the interesting pair. They were talking together, and I distinguished the man who had first called upon Edna by his deep voice. He was a short, thick-set, black-bearded man of forty, well-dressed in black, with a heavy gold albert across his ample vest. His companion, whose name was apparently Roesch, was considerably older, about fifty-five or so, of spare build, erect, thin-faced, with long grey whiskers descending from either cheek, and shaven chin. He wore a frock-coat and silk hat, and was of a type altogether superior to his companion.
The woman Grainger’s coffee was brought to her as usual in the morning, but about ten o’clock she rang again, and when the chambermaid responded, said—
“Here are two letters. Post them for me in the box in the bureau, and tell them to send my bill at once. I leave at ten forty-five.”
“Yes’m.” And the girl departed to post the letters.
To whom, I wondered, were those letters addressed? Within my mind I strove to devise some plan whereby I could obtain a glance at the addresses. The box, however, was only at the foot of the stairs, therefore ere I could resolve upon any plan the girl had dropped them into it, and I heard her linen flounces beating along the corridor again. Those letters were in the post, and beyond my reach.
She had written those two missives during the night, and after the departure of her visitors. They had, no doubt, some connexion with the matter which the trio had so earnestly discussed in that tantalising foreign tongue.
In hesitancy I remained some little time, then a sudden thought occurred to me. I addressed an envelope to the hall-porter of my club, enclosing a blank sheet of paper, and then descending, posted it. The box was placed outside the bureau, and the instant I had dropped the letter in I turned, as though in anger with myself, and, entering the bureau, said to the clerk—
“I’ve unfortunately posted a letter without a stamp. Have you the key of the box?”
“The box belongs to the Post Office, sir,” he answered. “But we have a key to it.”
“Then I should esteem it a favour if you would recover my letter for me. It is most important that the addressee should not be charged for its postage. I regret that my absent-mindedness should give you this trouble.”
The clerk took the key from a drawer at the end of the bureau, and opening the box, took out the half-dozen or so letters which it contained, and spread them upon the desk. Among them were two square, pale-faced envelopes. As I took my own letter and affixed a stamp I glanced eagerly at the address of both.
One bore the superscription: “Mr P. Gechkuloff, 98, King Henry’s Road, Hampstead, N.W.”
Upon the other were words which caused my heart to leap joyfully within me. They were—
“Miss Mabel Anson,Langham Hotel, London.”
I posted my letter, hurried upstairs and paid my bill. Edna had already packed her trunk, but had changed her mind, and did not intend leaving Hull that day. I heard her inform the chambermaid of her intention of remaining, then I left the hotel, and caught the ten-forty-five express for London.