The Wiles of the Wicked Part 37

"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 a.s.sumed name?"

She smiled mysteriously.

"It was easy enough, I a.s.sure you. A man of your influence in the City, and as well known as you are, has considerable difficulty in effectively concealing his ident.i.ty."

"But who told you where I was staying?" I demanded.

"n.o.body. 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, hoa.r.s.e 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 ident.i.ty. 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 the _Bath 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?"