The face of Mabel Anson, my new-found friend and idyll, had in that
instant changed. Her countenance was pale as death, while the hand
holding the small pencil trembled.
"Whence did you obtain this?" she demanded in an awe-stricken tone,
which showed plainly that she recognised it. She held her breath in
expectancy.
What could I reply? To explain the truth was impossible, for I had
pledged my honour to Edna to preserve the secret. Besides, I had no
wish to horrify her by the strange story of my midnight adventure.
Hence a lie arose involuntarily to my lips.
"I found it," I stammered.
"Found it? Where?"
"I found it when groping about during the time I was blind, and I've
carried it ever since, wondering whether one day I should discover its
owner."
"It is extraordinary?" she gasped--"most extraordinary."
"You appear to recognise it," I observed, much puzzled at her attitude.
"If you can tell me to whom it belongs I will return it."
She hesitated, and with a quick effort regained her self-control.
"I mean it possesses an extraordinary resemblance to one I have seen
many times before--but I suppose there are lots of pencil-cases of the
same shape," she added with affected carelessness.
"But there is a curious, unintelligible cypher engraved upon it," I
said. "Did you notice it?"
"Yes. It is the engraving which makes me doubt that I know its owner.
His initials were not those."
"You speak in the past tense," I observed. "Why!"
"Because--well, because we are no longer friends--if you desire to know
the truth;" and she handed me back the object, which, with the
dress-stud, formed the only clue I had to the identity of the
unfortunate victim of the assassin.
There was something in her manner which was to me the reverse of
convincing. I felt absolutely certain that this unimportant object had,
in reality, been identified by her, and that with some hidden motive she
was now intentionally misleading me.
"Then you do not believe that this really belonged to your friend?" I
asked, holding it up to her gaze.
"No," she answered quickly, averting her face as though the sight of it
were obnoxious. "I feel certain that it did not. Its resemblance is
striking--that's all."
"It would have been a remarkable coincidence if it really were the
property of your friend," I said.
"Very remarkable," she admitted, still regarding me strangely. "Yet the
trite saying that `The world is small' is nevertheless very true. When
I first saw it I felt certain it belonged to a gentleman I knew, but on
closer examination I find it is older, more battered, and bears initials
which have evidently been engraved several years."
"Where did your friend lose his?" I inquired, reflecting upon the
lameness of her story. The mere recognition of a lost pencil-case would
never have affected her in the manner that sight of this one had if
there were not some deeper meaning attached to it.
"I have no idea. Indeed, I am not at all sure that it is not still in
his possession."
"And how came you to be so well acquainted with its aspect?" I asked,
in eagerness to ascertain the truth.
She hesitated for a few moments. "Because," she faltered--"because it
was a present from me."
"To an admirer?"
She did not answer, but even in that dim lamplight I detected the
tell-tale flush mounting to her cheeks.