"My name is Aline."
"Aline," I repeated. "A name as charming as its owner."
"You want to pay me compliments," she laughed, blushing deeply.
"And your surname?" I went on.
"Cloud," she replied. "Aline Cloud."
"Then your aunt's name is Popejoy, and you are living at 16, Ellerdale
Road, Hampstead," I said, laughing. "Well, we have discovered it all at
last."
"Yes, thanks to you," she replied, with a sigh of relief. Then looking
anxiously at the clock, she added, "It's late, therefore I must be
going. I can get there in a cab, I suppose?"
"Certainly," I answered; "and if you'll wait a moment while I get a
thick coat I'll see you safely there--if I may be allowed."
"No," she said, putting up her little hand as if to arrest me, "I
couldn't think of taking you out all that way at this hour."
I laughed, for I was used to late hours at the club, and had on many a
morning crossed Leicester Square on my way home when the sun was
shining.
So disregarding her, I went into my room, exchanged my light overcoat
for a heavier one, placed a silk muffler around my neck, and having
fortified myself with a whiskey and soda, we both went out, and entering
a cab started forth on our long drive up to Hampstead.
The cabman was ignorant of Ellerdale Road, but when I directed him to
Fitzjohn's Avenue he at once asserted that he would quickly find it.
"I hope we may meet again. We must!" I exclaimed, when at last we grew
near our journey's end. "This is certainly a very strange meeting, but
if at any time I can render you another service, command me."
"You are extremely good," she answered, turning to me after looking out
fixedly upon the dark, deserted street, for rain was falling, and it was
muddy and cheerless. "We had, however, better not meet again."
"Why?" I inquired. Her beauty had cast a spell about me, and I was
capable of any foolishness.
"Because it is unnecessary," she replied, with a strange vagueness, yet
without hesitation.
We were passing at that moment the end of a winding thoroughfare, and at
a word the cabman turned his horse and proceeded slowly in search of
Number 16.
Without much difficulty we found it, a good-sized detached house, built
in modern style, with gable ends and long windows; a house of a
character far better than I had expected. I had believed the street to
be a mean one, of those poor-looking houses which bear the stamp of
weekly rents, but was surprised to find a quiet, eminently respectable
suburban road at the very edge of London. At the back of the houses
were open fields, and one or two of the residences had carriage-drives
before them.
There was still a light over the door, which showed that the lost one
was expected, and as she descended she allowed her little, well-gloved
hand to linger for a moment in mine.
"Good night," she said, merrily, "and thank you ever so much. I shall
never forget your kindness--never."
"Then you will repay me by meeting me again?" I urged.
"No," she answered, in an instant serious. "It is best not."
"Why? I trust I have not offended you?"
"Of course not. It is because you have been my friend to-night that I
wish to keep apart from you."
"Is that the way you treat your friends?" I inquired.
"Yes," she replied, meaningly. Then, after a pause, added, "I have no
desire to bring evil upon you."
"Evil!" I exclaimed, gazing in wonderment at her beauty. "What evil
can you possibly bring upon me?"
"You will, perhaps, discover some day," she answered, with a hollow,
artificial laugh. "But I'm so very late. Good night, and thank you
again so much."
Then turning quickly, with a graceful bow she entered the gate leading
to the house, and rang the bell.
I saw her admitted by a smart maid, and having lit a fresh cigarette
settled myself in a corner, and told the cabman to drive back to Charing
Cross Mansions.
The man opened the trap-door in the roof of the conveyance, and began to
chat, as night-cabmen will do to while away the time, yet the outlook
was very dismal--that broad, long, never-ending road glistening with
wet, and lit by two straight rows of street-lamps as far as the eye
could reach right down to Oxford Street.
I was thinking regretfully of Aline; of her grace, her beauty, and of
the strange circumstances in which we had become acquainted. Her
curious declaration that she might cause me some mysterious evil sorely
puzzled me, and I felt impelled to seek some further explanation.
I entered my chambers with my latch-key, and the ever-watchful Simes
came forward, took my hat and coat, drew forward my particular armchair,
and placed the whiskey and syphon at my elbow.
I had mixed a final drink, and was raising my glass, when suddenly my
eyes fell upon the little triangular side-table where the curios were
displayed.
What I saw caused me to start and open my eyes in amazement. Then I
walked across to inspect it more closely.
The ivory crucifix, the most treasured in my collection, had been
entirely consumed by fire. Nothing remained of it but its ashes, a
small white heap, the silver effigy fused to a mass.
"Simes!" I cried. "What's the meaning of this?"
"I don't know, sir," he answered, pale in alarm. "I noticed it almost
the instant you had left the house. The ashes were quite warm then."
"Are you sure you haven't had an accident with it?" I queried, looking
him straight in the face.
"No, sir; I swear I haven't," he replied. "Your cab had hardly driven
away when I found it just as it is now. I haven't touched it."
I looked, and noted its position. It was in the exact spot where Aline
had placed it after taking it in her hand.
I recollected, too, that it was there where she had seen the object
which had so disturbed her.
That some deep and extraordinary mystery was connected with this sudden
spontaneous destruction of the crucifix was plain. It was certainly an
uncanny circumstance.
I stood before that little table, my eyes fixed upon the ashes, amazed,
open-mouthed, petrified.
A vague, indefinite shadow of evil had fallen upon me.