Long and deeply I pondered over the Colonel's words. That he had some
underlying motive in thus warning me against the woman by whom I had
become so fascinated was vividly apparent, yet to all my demands he
remained dumb. On the afternoon following I found him in the St
James's Club--that club of diplomatists--and reverted to the subject.
But all the response he vouchsafed was--
"I've merely warned you, my dear fellow. I shall say no more. I, of
course, don't blame you for admiring her, I only tell you to pull
yourself up short."
"But why?"
"Because if you go further than admiration you'll be treading dangerous
ground--devilish dangerous, I can assure you."
"You mean that she has a jealous lover?" I suggested.
"She has no lover, as far as I'm aware," he answered.
"Then, speaking candidly, Channing," I said, "I don't see why you should
turn prophet like this without giving me any reason."
"My reason is briefly told," he said with unusual gravity. "I don't
wish to see you upset and unhappy, now that you've recovered your
sight."
His words seemed very lame ones.
"Why should I be unhappy?"
"Because Mabel Anson can never be more to you than an acquaintance; she
can never reciprocate your love. I tell you plainly that if you allow
yourself to become entranced and all that sort of thing, you'll only
make a confounded ass of yourself."
"You certainly speak very plainly," I observed, annoyed that he should
interfere so prematurely in a matter which was assuredly my affair
alone.
"I speak because I have your welfare at heart, Wilford," he answered in
a kindly tone. "I only regret now that I asked you to my table to meet
her. It is my fault--entirely my fault."
"You talk as though she were some genius of evil," I laughed. "Let me
act as I think fit, my dear Channing."
"Let you go headlong to the devil, eh?" he snapped.
"But to love her is not to go on the downward path, surely?" I cried
incredulously.
"I warn you, once and for all, to have nothing whatever to do with her,"
he said. "I know her--you do not."
But I laughed him to scorn. His words seemed utterly absurd, as though
his mind were filled by some strong prejudice which he dared not to
utter for fear of laying himself open to an action for slander. If her
acquaintance were so extremely undesirable, why did he invite her and
her mother to his table? His words were not borne out by his own
actions.
So I bade him farewell rather coolly, and left the club abruptly, in
anger with myself at having sought him, or bestowed a single thought
upon his extraordinary warning.
In the days that followed my mind was fully engrossed by recollections
of her charm and beauty. Like every other man, I had had, before my
blindness, one or two minor affairs of the heart, but never before had I
experienced the grand passion. I had, indeed, admired several other
women of various ages and various stations, but none had ever approached
in grace, beauty, or refinement the woman who had so suddenly come into
my life, and so quickly gone out of it.
Yes, I openly confess that I, who had of later years determined to
remain a bachelor, was deeply in love with her. Indeed, for the time, I
actually forgot the grim shadow of evil which had in my blindness fallen
upon me.
Hither and thither in the great world of London I went with my eyes ever
open in eagerness to catch a glimpse of her. I lounged in the Row at
the fashionable hour; went to the opera, and swept boxes and stalls with
my glasses; and strolled about Regent Street, Oxford Street, and High
Street, Kensington, in the vicinity of those great drapery emporiums so
dear alike to the feminine heart and to the male pocket. For ten days
or so I spent greater part of my time in searching for her slim, erect
figure among the bustling London crowds. I knew her address, it was
true, but my acquaintance was not sufficient to warrant a call,
therefore I was compelled to seek a chance encounter.
All, however, was in vain. I had firmly resolved to take no heed of the
Colonel's extraordinary premonition, and laughed at his dehortatory
suggestions; for I meant at all costs to meet her again. One day I
suddenly recollected that in conversation Mrs Anson had mentioned that
her daughter was a student at the Royal Academy of Music. If so, then
she would undoubtedly go there alone on certain days to take her
lessons. By carefully watching I might, I thought, meet her as if by
accident. So I at once set to work to make inquiries, and discovered
through tipping one of the hall-porters of the institution that Miss
Anson came there every Tuesday and Friday at two o'clock in the
afternoon. The next day chanced to be Tuesday, therefore I went to
Hanover Square and waited for her at the corner of Tenterden Street. As
I watched I saw quite a number of smart-looking lady students pass into
the institution, but, although I remained on the alert for nearly two
hours, she did not come, and at length I was compelled to return home
wearied, unsuccessful, and dispirited.
That night, however, a blow fell upon me. An incident which I had
constantly dreaded occurred, for by the last post was delivered one of
those strange typewritten mandates from the unknown. The envelope was a
blue-grey one, such as lawyers use, and the postmark showed that it had
been dispatched from the Lombard Street office, in the City. I tore it
open in fear and trepidation, and glanced at the few even lines it
contained. The lines I read were signed by the word "Avel," traced with
a heavy hand in rough Roman capitals, and were as follows:--
"To-morrow, the fourteenth of October, enter the Park at Grosvenor Gate
at four o'clock, and wait at the third seat on the path which leads to
the band-stand."
I stood silent, with the mysterious missive in my hand. Some secret
service was evidently required of me. The shadow of that fateful night
had again fallen, crushing me beneath its weight of mystery and crime.
I thought of the unknown Edna, and pictured her in comparison with
Mabel. In my helplessness I had become an unwilling tool in the hands
of the former, and now I hated and despised her. This galling servitude
which she had imposed upon me under penalty of death was doubly irksome
now that I loved; yet so mysterious and tragic were all the
circumstances that I feared to break the bond that I had given.
In ordinary circumstances I think I should have been eager to obey this
sudden demand to go to the Park on the following day. There was a
distinct air of adventure in the appointment, and, eager to fathom the
mystery surrounding Edna, I saw that this meeting might furnish me with
some clue. But I recollected Mabel, all sweetness and purity, and hated
it all. Edna had declared that she herself was not the mysterious
"Avel," yet I had no reason to disbelieve her statement. To me it
seemed as though she were acting under instructions which had for their
object the preservation of the secret of the midnight crime.
Who was the young man who had fallen victim? His identity puzzled me
always, until the problem had become so perplexing as to drive me to
despair. Although time after time I had searched the newspapers, I had
found no one answering to his description mentioned as missing. He had
evidently been done to death and his body disposed of without a single
inquiry, while the crime had been concealed with an ingenuity which
appalled me. Might I, myself, not fall victim in a similar manner if I
refused to obey these strange mandates of an unknown hand?
These thoughts were the reverse of reassuring, for even if I went to the
police they would be unable to assist me. A detective might keep the
appointment in the Park, but it was certain on seeing a stranger in the
vicinity the person who intended to meet me would give him a very wide
berth.
That hot night I lay awake through many hours calmly reviewing the whole
situation. On the last occasion when I had obeyed the order of my
mysterious correspondent--sent undoubtedly at Edna's instigation--I had
profited considerably. Was the present order for good or for evil?
Naturally, I had always been fond of adventure, for I came of a family
of sailors. But the gruesome incidents of that single night when I had
wandered alone in London had utterly unnerved me. I had become so
surrounded by mystery that each effort of mine to elucidate it caused me
to sink deeper and deeper into the complex quagmire of uncertainty.
Perhaps Edna herself desired to speak with me, now that I could see.
This suggestion took possession of me, and next morning I was anxious
and interested in the appointment. Soon after three I took an omnibus
from the Strand to the corner of Park Lane, and on the stroke of four
entered the Park at Grosvenor Gate and glanced eagerly around. No one
was in the vicinity save one or two loungers of the "unemployed" type
and two or three nursemaids with children. Without difficulty I soon
found the seat indicated, and sat down to wait. It was a pleasant spot
beneath a large chestnut tree, quiet and more secluded than any of the
others. Evidently my correspondent knew the Park well.
I lit a cigarette and possessed myself in patience. After some five
minutes or so a female figure entered the gate and approached in my
direction. It was that of an elderly woman of rather common type, and
as she came straight towards me I waited her with some curiosity, but
she passed me by without a look, and continued on her way. Then I knew
that she was not the person who intended to meet me, and laughed within
myself.
My position was one of curiosity, sitting there prepared to meet some
person unknown. We have all of us, at one time or another, sat awaiting
persons we have never before seen, and we have invariably found mental
pictures of their appearance utterly different from their real aspect.
It was so with me at that moment. I sat waiting and wondering for half
an hour or so, watching narrowly all who chanced to approach, until I
began to suspect that for some reason or other the appointment would not
be kept.
A glance at my watch showed it to be already twenty minutes to five. My
patience was exhausted, and I felt annoyed that I should be thus brought
here on a purposeless errand. Of one man who had passed, a dark-faced,
ill-dressed lounger, I had had my suspicions. He had idled past,
feigning to take no notice of my presence, yet I saw that he was
covertly watching me. Perhaps he had been sent to see whether I had
come there alone. I waited and waited, but in vain.
The shadows had lengthened, the sun was sinking behind the trees in
Kensington Gardens, and at length I cast away the end of my last
remaining cigarette and rose to depart. Perhaps some untoward incident
had occurred, and I should receive a further communication from my
unknown correspondent. I had, at least, carried out my part of the
compact, and was therefore free. So I took my stick and set forth
towards Grosvenor Gate at a brisk pace, for I was tired of waiting, and
my limbs were cramped by my long and fruitless vigil.
I had almost reached the gate leading out to Park Lane when of a sudden,
at a sharp bend of the path, a dark figure loomed up before me.
In an instant I drew up speechless, aghast, amazed. The mystery was
absolutely dumbfounding.