BRIDGING THREE YEARS OF SEPARATION
It was the unexpectedness of the thing that threw me off my guard.
With a savage effort I recovered myself almost at once, but it was too
late to be of any use. At the sound of my voice all the colour had
left Joyce's face. Her hands went up to her breast, and with a low cry
she stepped forward and then stood there white and swaying, gazing at
me with wide-open, half-incredulous eyes.
"My God!" she whispered; "it's you--Neil!"
I think she would have fallen, but I came to her side, and putting my
arm round her shoulders gently forced her into one of the chairs. Then
I knelt in front of her and took her hands in mine. I saw it was no
good trying to deceive her.
"I didn't know," I said simply; "I followed George here."
"What have they done to you?" she moaned. "What have they done to you,
my Neil? And your hands--oh, your poor dear hands!"
She burst out crying, and bending down pressed her face against my
fingers.
"Don't, Joyce," I said, a little roughly. "For God's sake don't do
that."
Half unconsciously I pulled away my hands, which three years in
Dartmoor had certainly done nothing to improve.
My abrupt action seemed to bring Joyce to herself. She left off
sobbing, and with a sudden hurried glance round the room jumped up
from her chair.
"I must speak to Jack--now at once," she whispered. "He mustn't let
any one else into the flat."
She stopped for a moment to dry her eyes, which were still wet with
tears, and then walking quickly to the door disappeared into the
passage. She was only gone for a few seconds. I just had time to get
to my feet when she came back into the room, and shutting the door
behind her, turned the key in the lock. Then with a little gasp
she leaned against the wall. For the first time I realized what an
amazingly beautiful girl she had grown into.
"Neil, Neil," she said, stretching out her hands; "is it really you!"
I came across, and taking her in my arms very gently kissed her
forehead.
"My little Joyce," I said. "My dear, brave little Joyce."
She buried her face in my coat, and I felt her hand moving up and down
my sleeve.
"Oh," she sobbed, "if I had only known where to find you before! Ever
since you escaped I have been hoping and longing that you would come
to me." Then she half pushed me back, and gazed up into my face with
her blue, tear-stained eyes. "Where have you been? What have they done
to you? Oh, tell me--tell me, Neil. It's breaking my heart to see you
so different."
For a moment I hesitated. I would have given much if I could have
undone the work of the last few minutes, for even to be revenged on
George I would not willingly have brought my wretched troubles and
dangers into Joyce's life. Now that I had done so, however, there
seemed to be no other course except to tell her the truth. It was
impossible to leave her in her present agony of bewilderment and
doubt.
Pulling up one of the chairs I sat down, drawing her on to my knee.
"If I had known it was you, Joyce," I said, "I should have let George
go to the devil before I followed him here."
"But why?" she asked. "Where should you go to if you didn't come to
me?"
"Oh, my poor Joyce," I said bitterly; "haven't I brought enough
troubles and horrors into your life already?"
She interrupted me with a low, passionate cry. "_You_ talk like
that! You, who have lost everything for my wretched sake! Can't you
understand that every day and night since you went to prison I've
loathed and hated myself for ever telling you anything about it? If
I'd dreamed what was going to happen I'd have let Marks--"
I stopped her by crushing her in my arms, and for a little while she
remained there sobbing bitterly, her cheek resting on my shoulder. For
a moment or two I didn't feel exactly like talking myself.
Indeed it was Joyce who spoke first. Raising her head she wiped away
her tears, and then sitting up gazed long and searchingly into my
face.
"There is nothing of you left," she said, "nothing except your
eyes--your dear, splendid eyes. I think I should have known you by
those even if you hadn't spoken." Then, taking my hands again and
pressing them to her, she added passionately: "Oh, tell me what it
means, Neil. Tell me everything that's happened to you from the moment
you got away."
"Very well," I said recklessly: "I shall be dragging you into all
sorts of dangers, and I shall be breaking my oath to McMurtrie, but
after all that's just the sort of thing one would expect from an
escaped convict."
Step by step, from the moment when I had jumped over the wall into the
plantation, I told her the whole astounding story. She listened to me
in silence, her face alone betraying the feverish interest with which
she was following every word. When I came to the part about Sonia
kissing me (I told her everything just as it had happened) her hands
tightened a little on mine, but except for that one movement she
remained absolutely still.
It was not until I had finished speaking that she made her first
comment. After I stopped she sat on for a moment just as she was; and
then quite suddenly her face lighted up, and with a little low laugh
that was half a sob she leaned forward and slid her arm round my neck.
"Tommy was right," she whispered. "He said you'd do something
wonderful. I knew it too, but oh, Neil dear, I've suffered tortures
wondering where you were and what had happened."
Then, sitting up again and pushing back her hair, she began to ask me
questions.
"These people--Dr. McMurtrie and the others--do you believe their
story?"
"No," I said bluntly. "I am quite certain they were lying to me."
"Why should they have helped you, then?"
"I haven't the remotest idea," I admitted. "I am only quite sure that
neither McMurtrie nor Savaroff are what they pretend to be. Besides,
you remember the hints that Sonia gave me."
"Ah, Sonia!" Joyce looked down and played with one of the buttons of
my coat. "Is she--is she very pretty?" she asked.
"She seems likely to be very useful," I said. Then, stroking Joyce's
soft curly hair, which had become all tousled against my shoulder, I
added: "But I'm answering questions when all the time I'm dying to ask
them. There are a hundred things you've got to tell me. What are you
doing here? Why do you call yourself Miss Vivien? Are you really
living next door to Tommy? And George--how on earth do you come to be
mixed up with George?"
"I'll tell you everything," she said, "only I must know all about you
first. Why were you following George? You don't mean to let him know
who you are? Oh, Neil, Neil, promise me that you won't do that."
"Joyce," I said slowly, "I want to find out who killed Seton Marks. I
don't suppose there is the least chance of my doing so, and if I can't
I most certainly mean to wring George's neck. That was chiefly what I
broke out of prison for."
"Yes, yes," she said feverishly, "but there _is_ a chance. You'll
understand when I've explained." She put her hands to her forehead.
"Oh, I hardly know where to begin."
"Begin anywhere," I said. "Tell me why you're pretending to be a
palmist."
She got up from my knee and, walking slowly to the table, seated
herself on the end.
"I wanted money," she said; "and I wanted to meet one or two people
who might be useful about you."
"But I left eight hundred pounds for you with Tommy," I exclaimed.
"You got that?"
She nodded. "It's in the bank now. I have been keeping it in case
anything happened. You don't suppose I was going to spend it? How
could I have helped you then even when I got the chance?"
"But, my dear Joyce," I protested, "the money was for you. And you
couldn't have helped me with it in any case. I had plenty more waiting
for me when my sentence was out."
"When your sentence was out," repeated Joyce fiercely. "Do you think
I was going to let you stop in prison till then!" She checked herself
with an effort. "I had better tell you everything from the beginning,"
she said. "I couldn't write any more to you, because I was only
allowed to send the two letters, and I knew both of them would be read
by somebody."
She paused a moment.
"I went away after the trial. I was very ill, and Tommy took me to a
little place called Looe, down in Cornwall. We stayed there nearly six
months. When I came back I took the flat next to him and called myself
Miss Vivien. I had made up my mind then what I was going to do. You
see there were only two possible ways in which I could help you. One
was to find out who killed Marks, and the other was to get you out of
prison--anyhow. Of course, after the trial, it seemed madness to think
about the first, but then I just had three things to go on. I knew
that you were innocent, I knew that for some reason of his own George
had lied about you, and I knew that there had been some one else in
the flat the day of the murder."
"The man who was with Marks when you arrived," I said. "But you saw
him go away, and there was nothing to connect him with the murder,
except the fact that he didn't turn up at the trial. Sexton himself
had to admit that in his speech."
"There was his face," said Joyce quietly. "It was a dreadful face. It
looked as if all the goodness had been burned out of it."
"There are about five hundred gentlemen like that in Princetown,"
I said, "including several of the warders. Did they ever find out
anything about him?"
Joyce shook her head. "Mr. Sexton did everything he could, but it was
quite useless. Whoever he was, the man never came forward, and you
see there was no one except me who even knew what he was like. It was
partly that which first gave me the idea of becoming a palmist. I
thought that up here in the West End I was more likely to come across
him than anywhere else. And then there were other people I meant to
meet--men in the Government who might be able to get your sentence
shortened. I knew I was beautiful, and with some men you can do
anything if you're beautiful, and--and you don't care."
"Joyce!" I cried, "for God's sake don't tell me--"
"No," she broke in passionately: "there's nothing to tell you. But if
the chance had come I'd have sold myself a thousand times over to get
you out of prison. The only man I've met who could do anything has
been Lord Lammersfield, and he...." She paused, then with a little
break in her voice she added: "Well, I think Lord Lammersfield is
rather like Tommy in some ways."
"I suppose there are still one or two white men about," I said.
"Lord Lammersfield used to be at the Home Office once, so of course
his influence would count for a great deal. Well, he did all that was
possible for me, but about six months ago he told me that there was no
chance of your being let out for another three years. It was then that
I made up my mind to get to know George."
I thrust my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cigarette case.
"You--you've got rather thorough ideas about friendship, Joyce," I
said, a little unsteadily. "Can I smoke?"
She picked up a box of matches from the table, and coming across
seated herself on the arm of my chair.
"Have I?" she said simply. "Well, you taught me them."
She struck a match and held it to my cigarette.
"How did you manage it?" I asked.
"Oh, it was easy enough. I asked Lord Lammersfield to bring him here
one day. You know what George is like; he would never refuse to do
anything a Cabinet Minister suggested. Of course he had no idea who I
was until he arrived."
"It must have been quite a pleasant surprise for him," I said grimly.
"Did he recognize you at once?"
Joyce shook her head. "He had only seen me at the trial, and I had my
hair down then. Besides, two years make a lot of difference."
"They've made a lot of difference in you," I said. "They've turned you
from a pretty child into a beautiful woman."
With a little low, contented laugh Joyce again laid her head on my
shoulder. "I think," she said, "that that's the only one of George's
opinions I'd like you to share."
There was a moment's silence. Then I gently twisted one of her loose
curls round my finger.
"My poor Joyce," I said, "you seem to have been wading in some
remarkably unpleasant waters for my sake."
She shivered slightly. "Oh, it was hateful in a way, but I didn't
care. I knew George was hiding something that might help to get you
out of prison, and what did my feelings matter compared with that!
Besides--" she smiled mockingly--"for all his cleverness and his
wickedness George is a fool--just the usual vain fool that most men
are about women. It's been easy enough to manage him."
"He knows who you are now, of course?" I said.
She nodded. "I told him. He would have been almost certain to find
out, and then he would probably have been suspicious. As it is he
thinks our meeting was just pure chance."
"But surely," I objected, "he must have guessed you were on my side?"
She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Yes," she said, "he guessed that all
right. It's what he calls 'a sacred bond between us.' There are times,
you know, when George is almost funny."
"There are times," I said, "when he must make Judas Iscariot feel
sick."
"I sometimes wonder why I haven't killed him," she went on slowly. "I
think I should have if he had ever tried to kiss me. As it is--"
she laughed again in the same way--"as it is we are becoming great
friends. He is taking me out to dinner at the Savoy tonight."
"But if he doesn't try to make love to you--" I began.
"Oh!" she said, with a little shrug of her shoulders, "that's coming.
At present he imagines that he is being clever and diplomatic. Also
there's a business side to the matter."
"Yes," I said; "there would be with George."
"He's horribly frightened of you. Of course he tries to hide it from
me, but I can see that ever since you escaped from prison he has been
living in a state of absolute terror. His one idea at present is a
frantic hope that you will be recaptured. That's partly where I come
in."
"You?" I repeated.
"Yes. He thinks that sooner or later, when you want help, you will
probably write and tell me where you are."
"And then you are to pass the good news on to him?"
She nodded. "He says that if I let him know at once, he will arrange
to get you safely out of the country."
I lay back in the chair and laughed out loud.
Joyce, who was still sitting on the arm, looked down happily into my
face. "Oh," she said, "I love to hear you laugh again." Then, slipping
her hand into mine, she went on: "I suppose he means to arrange it so
that it will look as if you had been caught by accident while he was
trying to help you."
"I expect so," I said. "I should be out of the way again then, and you
would be so overcome by gratitude--Oh, yes, there's quite a Georgian
touch about it."
The sharp tinkle of an electric bell broke in on our conversation.
Joyce jumped up from the chair, and for a moment both remained
listening while "Jack" answered the door.
"I know who it is," whispered Joyce. "It's old Lady Mortimer. She had
an appointment for one o'clock."
"But what have you arranged to do?" I asked. "There's no reason you
should put all your people off. I can go away for the time, or stop in
another room, or something."
"No, no; it's all right," whispered Joyce. "I'll tell you in a
minute."
She waited until we heard the front door shut, and then coming back to
me sat down again on my knee.
"I told Jack," she said, "not to let any one into the flat till three
o'clock. I have an appointment then I ought to keep, but that still
gives us nearly two hours. I will send Jack across to Stewart's to
fetch us some lunch, and we'll have it in here. What would you like,
my Neil?"
"Anything but eggs and bacon," I said, getting out another cigarette.
She jumped up with a laugh, and, after striking me a match, went out
into the passage, leaving the door open. I heard her call the page-boy
and give him some instructions, and then she came back into the room,
her eyes dancing with happiness and excitement.
"Isn't this splendid!" she exclaimed. "Only this morning I was utterly
miserable wondering if you were dead, and here we are having lunch
together just like the old days in Chelsea."
"Except for your hair, Joyce," I said. "Don't you remember how it was
always getting in your eyes?"
"Oh, that!" she cried; "that's easily altered."
She put up her hands, and hastily pulled out two or three hairpins.
Then she shook her head, and in a moment a bronze mane was rippling
down over her shoulders exactly as it used to in the old days.
"I wish I could do something like that," I said ruefully. "I'm afraid
my changes are more permanent."
Joyce came up and thrust her arm into mine. "My poor dear," she said,
pressing it to her. "Never mind; you look splendid as you are."
"Won't your boy think there's something odd in our lunching together
like this?" I asked. "He seems a pretty acute sort of youth."
"Jack?" she said. "Oh, Jack's all right. He was a model in Chelsea. I
took him away from his uncle, who used to beat him with a poker. He
doesn't know anything about you, but if he did he would die for you
cheerfully. He's by way of being rather grateful to me."
"You always inspired devotion, Joyce," I said, smiling. "Do you
remember how Tommy and I used to squabble as to which of us should
eventually adopt you?"
She nodded, almost gravely; then with a sudden change back to her
former manner, she made a step towards the inner room, pulling me
after her.
"Come along," she said. "We'll lunch in there. It's more cheerful than
this, and anyway I want to see you in the daylight."
I followed her in through the curtains, and found myself in a small,
narrow room with a window which looked out on the back of Burlington
Arcade. A couple of chairs, a black oak gate-legged table, and a
little green sofa made up the furniture.
Joyce took me to the window, and still holding my arm, made a second
and even longer inspection of McMurtrie's handiwork.
"It's wonderful, Neil," she said at last. "You look fifteen years
older and absolutely different. No one could possibly recognize you
except by the way you speak."
"I've been practising that," I said, altering my voice. "I shouldn't
have given myself away if you hadn't taken me by surprise."
She smiled again happily. "It's so good to feel that you're safe, even
if it's only for a few days." Then, letting go my arm, she crossed to
the sofa. "Come and sit down," she went on. "We've got to decide all
sorts of things, and we shan't have too much time."
"I've told you my plans, Joyce," I said, "such as they are. I mean to
go through with this business of McMurtrie's, though I'm sure there's
something crooked at the bottom of it. As for the rest--" I shrugged
my shoulders and sat down on the sofa beside her; "well, I've got the
sort of hand one has to play alone."
Joyce looked at me quietly and steadily.
"Neil," she said; "do you remember that you once called me the most
pig-headed infant in Chelsea?"
"Did I?" I said. "That was rather rude."
"It was rather right," she answered calmly; "and I haven't changed,
Neil. If you think Tommy and I are going to let you play this hand
alone, as you call it, you are utterly and absolutely wrong."
"Do you know what the penalties are for helping an escaped convict?" I
asked.
She laughed contemptuously. "Listen, Neil. For three years Tommy and I
have had no other idea except to get you out of prison. Is it likely
we should leave you now?"
"But what can you do, Joyce?" I objected. "You'll only be running
yourselves into danger, and--"
"Oh, Neil dear," she interrupted; "it's no good arguing about it. We
mean to help you, and you'll have to let us."
"But suppose I refuse?" I said.
"Then as soon as Tommy comes back tomorrow I shall tell him everything
that you've told me. I know your address at Pimlico, and I know just
about where your hut will be down the Thames. If you think Tommy will
rest for a minute till he's found you, you must have forgotten a lot
about him in the last three years."
She spoke with a kind of indignant energy, and there was an obstinate
look in her blue eyes, which showed me plainly that it would be waste
of time trying to reason with her.
I reflected quickly. Perhaps after all it would be best for me to see
Tommy myself. He at least would appreciate the danger of dragging
Joyce into the business, and between us we might be able to persuade
her that I was right.
"Well, what are your ideas, Joyce?" I said. "Except for keeping my eye
on George I had no particular plan until I heard from McMurtrie."
Joyce laid her hand on my sleeve. "Tomorrow," she said, "you must go
and see Tommy. He is coming back by the midday train, and he will get
to the flat about two o'clock. Tell him everything that you have told
me. I shan't be able to get away from here till the evening, but I
shall be free then, and we three will talk the whole thing over. I
shan't make any more appointments here after tomorrow."
"Very well," I said reluctantly. "I will go and look up Tommy, but
I can't see that it will do any good. I am only making you and him
liable to eighteen months' hard labour." She was going to speak, but
I went on. "Don't you see, Joyce dear, there are only two possible
courses open to me? I can either wait and carry out my agreement with
McMurtrie, or I can go down to Chelsea and force the truth about
Marks's death out of George--if he really knows it. Dragging you two
into my wretched affairs won't alter them at all."
"Yes, it will," she said obstinately. "There are lots of ways in which
we can help you. Suppose these people turn out wrong, for instance;
they might even mean to give you up to the police as soon as they've
got your secret. And then there's George. If he does know anything
about the murder I'm the only person who is the least likely to find
it out. Why--"
A discreet knock at the outer door interrupted her, and she got up
from the sofa.
"That's Jack with the lunch," she said. "Come along, Neil dear. We
won't argue about it any more now. Let's forget everything for an
hour,--just be happy together as if we were back in Chelsea."
She held out her hands to me, her lips smiling, her blue eyes just on
the verge of tears. I drew her towards me and gently stroked her hair,
as I used to do in the old days in Chelsea when she had come to me
with some of her childish troubles. I felt an utter brute to think
that I could ever have doubted her loyalty, even for an instant.
How long we kept the luckless Jack waiting on the mat I can't say,
but at last Joyce detached herself, and crossing the room, opened the
door. Jack came in carrying a basket in one hand and a table-cloth in
the other. If he felt any surprise at finding Joyce with her hair down
he certainly didn't betray it.
"I got what I could, Mademoiselle," he observed, putting down his
burdens. "Oyster patties, galatine, cheese-cakes, and a bottle of
champagne. I hope that will please Mademoiselle?"
"It sounds distinctly pleasing, Jack," said Joyce gravely. "But then
you always do just what I want."
The boy flushed with pleasure, and began to lay the table without even
so much as bestowing a glance on me. It was easy enough to see that he
adored his young mistress--adored her far beyond questioning any of
her actions.
All through lunch--and an excellent lunch it was too--Joyce and I were
ridiculously happy. Somehow or other we seemed to drop straight back
into our former jolly relations, and for the time I almost forgot that
they had ever been interrupted. In spite of all she had been through
since, Joyce, at the bottom of her heart, was just the same as she had
been in the old days--impulsive, joyous, and utterly unaffected. All
her bitterness and sadness seemed to slip away with her grown-up
manner; and catching her infectious happiness, I too laughed and joked
and talked as cheerfully and unconcernedly as though we were in truth
back in Chelsea with no hideous shadow hanging over our lives. I even
found myself telling her stories about the prison, and making fun of
one of the chaplain's sermons on the beauties of justice. At the time
I remembered it had filled me with nothing but a morose fury.
It was the little clock on the mantlepiece striking a quarter to three
which brought us back to the realities of the present.
"I must go, Joyce," I said reluctantly, "or I shall be running into
some of your Duchesses."
She nodded. "And I've got to do my hair by three, and turn myself back
from Joyce into Mademoiselle Vivien--if I can. Oh, Neil, Neil; it's a
funny, mad world, isn't it!" She lifted up my hand and moved it softly
backwards and forwards against her lips. Then, suddenly jumping up,
she went into the next room, and came back with my hat and stick.
"Here are your dear things," she said; "and I shall see you tomorrow
evening at Tommy's. I shan't leave him a note--somebody might open it;
I shall just let you go and find him yourself. Oh, I should love to be
there when he realizes who it is."
"I know just what he'll do," I said. "He'll stare at me for a minute;
then he'll say quite quietly, 'Well, I'm damned,' and go and pour
himself out a whisky."
She laughed gaily. "Yes, yes," she said. "That's exactly what will
happen." Then with a little change in her voice she added: "And you
will be careful, won't you, Neil? I know you're quite safe; no one
can possibly recognize you; but I'm frightened all the same--horribly
frightened. Isn't it silly of me?"
I kissed her tenderly. "My Joyce," I said, "I think you have got the
bravest heart in the whole world."
And with this true if rather inadequate remark I left her.
I had plenty to think about during my walk back to Victoria. Exactly
what result the sharing of my secret with Tommy and Joyce would have,
it was difficult to forecast, but it opened up a disquieting field of
possibilities. Rather than get either of them into trouble I would
cheerfully have thrown myself in front of the next motor bus, but if
such an extreme course could be avoided I certainly had no wish to
end my life in that or any other abrupt fashion until I had had the
satisfaction of a few minutes' quiet conversation with George.
I blamed myself to a certain extent for having given way to Joyce.
Still, I knew her well enough to be sure that if I had persisted in
my refusal she would have stuck to her intention of trying to help me
against my will. That would only have made matters more dangerous for
all of us, so on the whole it was perhaps best that I should go and
see Tommy. I had not the fainest doubt he would be anxious enough to
help me himself if I would let him, but he would at least see the
necessity for keeping Joyce out of the affair. We ought to be able to
manage her between us, though when I remembered the obstinate look in
her eyes I realized that it wouldn't be exactly a simple matter.
I stopped at a book-shop just outside Victoria, which I had noticed on
the previous evening. I wanted to order a copy of a book dealing
with a certain branch of high explosives that I had forgotten to ask
McMurtrie for, and when I had done that I took the opportunity of
buying a couple of novels by Wells which had been published since I
went to prison. Wells was a luxury which the prison library didn't run
to.
With these tucked under my arm, and still pondering over the
unexpected results of my chase after George, I continued my walk to
Edith Terrace. As I reached the house and thrust my key into the
lock the door suddenly opened from the inside, and I found myself
confronted by the apparently rather embarrassed figure of Miss Gertie
'Uggins.
"I 'eard you a-comin'," she observed, rubbing one hand down her leg,
"so I opened the door like."
"That was very charming of you, Gertrude," I said gravely.
She tittered, and then began to retreat slowly backwards down the
passage. "There's a letter for you in the sittin'-room. Come by the
post after you'd gorn. Yer want some tea?"
"I don't mind a cup," I said. "I've been eating and drinking all day;
it seems a pity to give it up now."
"I'll mike yer one," she remarked, nodding her head. "Mrs. Oldbury's
gorn out shoppin'."
She disappeared down the kitchen stairs, and opening the door of my
room I discovered the letter she had referred to stuck up on the
mantelpiece. I took it down with some curiosity. It was addressed to
James Nicholson, Esq., and stamped with the Strand postmark. I did not
recognize the writing, but common-sense told me that it could only be
from McMurtrie or one of his crowd.
When I opened the envelope I found that it contained a half-sheet
of note-paper, with the following words written in a sloping,
foreign-looking hand:
"You will receive either a message or a visitor at five o'clock
tomorrow afternoon. Kindly make it convenient to be at home at that
hour."
That was all. There was no signature and no address, and it struck
me that as an example of polite letter-writing it certainly left
something to be desired. Still, the message was clear enough, which
was the chief point, so, folding it up, I thrust it back into the
envelope and put it away in my pocket. After all, one can't expect a
really graceful literary style from a High Explosives Syndicate.
I wondered whether the note meant that the preparations which were
being made for me at Tilbury were finally completed. McMurtrie had
promised me a week in Town, and so far I had only had two days; still
I was hardly in a position to kick if he asked me to go down earlier.
Anyhow I should know the next day, so there seemed no use in worrying
myself about it unnecessarily.
It was my intention to spend a quiet interval reading one of my books,
before going out somewhere to get some dinner. In pursuance of this
plan I exchanged my boots for a pair of slippers and settled myself
down comfortably in the only easy-chair in the room. In about ten
minutes' time, faithful to her word, Gertie 'Uggins brought me up
an excellent cup of tea, and stimulated by this and the combined
intelligence and amorousness of Mr. Wells's hero, I succeeded in
passing two or three very agreeable hours.
At seven o'clock I roused myself rather reluctantly, put on my boots
again, and indulged in the luxury of a wash and a clean collar. Then,
after ringing the bell and informing Mrs. Oldbury that I should be out
to dinner, I left the house with the pleasantly vague intention of
wandering up West until I found some really attractive restaurant.
It was a beautiful evening, more like June than the end of April; and
with a cigarette alight, I strolled slowly along Victoria Street, my
mind busy over the various problems with which Providence had seen fit
to surround me. I had got nearly as far as the Stores, when a sudden
impulse took me to cross over and walk past our offices. A taxi was
coming up the road, so I waited for a moment on the pavement until
it had passed. The back part of the vehicle was open, and as it came
opposite to me, the light from one of the big electric standards fell
clear on the face of the man inside. He was sitting bolt upright,
looking straight out ahead, but in spite of his opera hat and his
evening dress I recognized him at once. It was the man with the
scar--the man I had imagined to be tracking me on the previous
evening.