The Wiles of the Wicked Part 34

"Mrs Heaton has sent you on some commission, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"You joined this train at Exeter, then?"

"I came from Exmouth to Exeter, and changed," she explained. "I saw you get in at Lympston." My heart sank within me. It was evident that this woman had been sent by my self-styled wife to keep watch upon my movements. If I intended to escape I should be compelled to make terms with her.

Those sharp dark eyes, with a curious light in them--eyes that seemed strangely staring and vacant at times--were fixed upon me, while the smile about her thin lips was clearly one of triumph, as though she had caught me in the act of flying from my home.

I reflected, but next moment resolved to take her into my confidence. I disliked her, for her manner was somewhat eccentric, and, furthermore, I had only her own word that she was really maid to that angular woman who called herself my wife. Nevertheless, I could do naught else than make a bargain with her.

"Now," I said at last, after some desultory conversation, "I want to make a suggestion to you. Do you think that if I gave you a ten-pound note you could forget having met me to-night? Do you think that you could forget having seen me at all?"

"Forget? I don't understand."

"Well, to put it plainly, I'm going to London, and I have no desire that anybody should know that I'm there," I explained. "When I am found to be missing from Denbury, Mrs Heaton will do all in her power to discover me. You are the only person who knows that I've gone to London, and I want you to hold your tongue."

She smiled again, showing an even row of white teeth.

"I was sent by my mistress to travel by this train and to see where you went," she said bluntly.

"Exactly as I thought," I answered. "Now, you will accept this as a little present, and return to Denbury to-morrow after a fruitless errand--utterly fruitless, you understand?"

She took the ten sovereigns I handed her, and transferred them to her purse, promising to say nothing of having met me.

I gathered from her subsequent conversation that she had been maid to Mrs Heaton ever since her marriage, and that she had acted as confidential servant. Many things she mentioned incidentally were of the greatest interest to me, yet they only served to show how utterly ignorant I was of all the past.

"But why did you disclose your ident.i.ty?" I inquired, when the lights showed that we were entering the London suburbs.

"Because I felt certain that you didn't recognise me," she laughed; "and I had no wish to spy upon you, knowing as I do that your life is the reverse of happy."

"Then you pity me, eh?"

"I scarcely think that is the word that one of my position ought to use," she answered, with some hesitation. "Your life has, since your marriage, not been of the happiest, that's certain."

"And so you have no intention of telling any one where I've gone?" I asked eagerly.

"None in the least, sir. Rest a.s.sured that I shall say nothing--not a single word."

"I thank you," I said, and sat back pondering in silence until the train ran into Waterloo, where we parted, she again rea.s.suring me of her intention to keep my secret.

I congratulated myself upon a very narrow escape, and, taking a cab, drove straight to Trafalgar Square. As I crossed Waterloo Bridge the long line of lights on the Embankment presented the same picture as they had ever done. Though six years had pa.s.sed since I had last had knowledge of London, nothing had apparently changed. The red night-glare in the leaden sky was still the same; the same unceasing traffic; the same flas.h.i.+ng of bright dresses and glittering jewels as hansoms pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed in the Strand--just as I had known London by night during all my life.

The gold-braided porter at the _Grand_ handed me out of the cab, and I ascended by the lift to the room allotted to me like a man in a dream.

It hardly seemed possible that I could have been absent in mind from that whirling, fevered world of London for six whole years. I had given a false name in the reception bureau, fearing that those people who called themselves my friends--Heaven save the mark!--might make inquiries and cause my arrest as a wandering lunatic. I had no baggage, and I saw that the hotel-clerk looked upon me with some suspicion.

Indeed, I threw down a couple of sovereigns, well knowing the rules that no person without luggage was taken unless he paid a deposit beforehand.

I laughed bitterly within myself. How strange it was!

Next morning I went forth and wandered down the Strand--the dear old Strand that I had once loved so well. No; it had in no wise changed, except, perhaps, that two or three monster buildings had sprung up, and that the theatres announced pieces quite unknown to me. A sudden desire seized me to see what kind of place was my own office. If, however, I went near there, I might, I reflected, be recognised by some one who knew me. Therefore I turned into a barber's and had my beard cut off, then, further on, bought a new dust coat and another hat. In that disguise I took a hansom to Old Broad Street.

I was not long in finding the business headquarters of my own self. How curious it all was! My name was marked upon a huge bra.s.s plate in the entrance-hall of that colossal block of offices, and I ascended to the first floor to find my name inscribed upon the door of one of the largest of the suites. I stood in the corridor carelessly reading a paper, and while doing so witnessed many persons, several of them smart-looking City men, leave, as though much business was being conducted within.

Fortunately, no one recognised me, and descending, I regained the street.

When outside I glanced up, and there saw my name, in big gilt letters, upon the wire blinds of six big windows.

If I were actually as well known in the City as Gedge had alleged, then it was dangerous for me to remain in that vicinity. Therefore I entered another cab and drove to my old chambers in Ess.e.x Street.

Up the thin-worn creaking stairs of the dismal, smoke-begrimed old place I climbed, but on arrival at my door a plate confronting me showed that Percival and Smale, solicitors, were now the occupants. From inquiries I made of Mr Smale, it appeared that they had occupied the floor as offices for the past three years, and that the tenants previous to them had been a firm of accountants. He knew nothing of my tenancy, and could tell me no word of either old Mrs Parker or of d.i.c.k Doyle, who had, it appeared, also vacated his quarters long ago. That afternoon I wandered in the Park, over that same road where I had lingered with Mabel in those cherished days bygone. Every tree and every object brought back to me sweet memories of her. But I remembered her letters reposing in my pocket, and bit my lip. Truly, in the unconscious life when I had been my other self, my real tastes had been inverted. My love for her had cooled. I had actually, when engaged to her, cast her aside.

It was incredible. Surely my experience was unique in all the world.

Unable to decide how to act in those puzzling circ.u.mstances, I spent fully a couple of hours in the Park. The Row was hot, dusty, and almost deserted, but at last I turned into the shady walks in Kensington Gardens, and wandered until I came out into the High Street by that same gate where she had once discovered the dead man's pencil-case in my possession.

As I stood there in the full light of that glaring afternoon, the whole scene came back vividly to me. She had known that man who had been so foully murdered in her mother's home. I must, at all costs, find her, clear myself, and elucidate the truth.

Hence, with that object, I hailed another cab, and, giving the man directions to drive to The Boltons, sat back, eager and wondering.

As the conveyance drew up my heart gave a leap for joy, for I saw by the blinds that the house was still occupied.

I sprang out and rang the visitors' bell.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE MASTER HAND.

A man-servant answered my summons.

"Mrs Anson?" I inquired.

"Mrs Anson is out of town, sir," answered the man. "The house is let."

"Furnished?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is your mistress at home?" I inquired.

"I don't know, sir," answered the man, diplomatically.

"Oh, of course!" I exclaimed, taking out a card. It was the first I found within my cigarette-case, and was intentionally not my own. "Will you take this to your mistress, and ask her if she will kindly spare me a few moments. I am a friend of Mrs Anson's."

"I'll see if she's at home, sir," said the man, dubiously; and then, asking me into the entrance-hall, he left me standing while he went in search of his mistress.

That hall was the same down which I had groped my way when blind. I saw the closed door of the drawing-room, and knew that within that room the young man whose name I knew not had been foully done to death. There was the very umbrella stand from which I had taken the walking-stick, and the door of the little-used library, which I had examined on that night when I had dined there at Mrs Anson's invitation--the last night of my existence as my real self.

The man returned in a few moments and invited me into a room on the left--the morning-room, I supposed it to be--saying: