The adjoining room was, I found, in the front part of the house--a
rather small one, lined on one side with books, but furnished more as a
boudoir than a library, for there were several easy-chairs, a
work-table, and a piano in a corner. At this instrument the mysterious
player had on that night sat executing Chopin's "Andante-Spinato" the
moment before it became interrupted by some tragic and unexpected
spectacle. I glanced around and noted that the furniture and carpet
were worn and faded, that the books were dusty and evidently unused, and
that the whole place presented an air of neglect, and had nothing
whatever in keeping with the gorgeousness of the other handsome
apartments.
The glasses were, as Mrs Anson had said, lying beside the blotting-pad
upon a small rosewood writing-table. I took them up, and, having made a
tour of inspection, was about to leave the place, when suddenly, on the
top of some books upon a shelf close to the door, I espied a small
volume.
The curious incident of the birthday book occurred to me; therefore I
took down the little volume and found that it really was a birthday
book. No name was inscribed on the title-page as owner, but there were
many names scribbled therein. In swift eagerness I turned to the page
of my own birthday--the 2nd of July. It was blank.
I stood pondering with the book still in my hand. The absence of my
name there proved one or two things, either I had not signed a birthday
book at all, or, if I had, it was not the one I had discovered. Now,
there are frequently two birthday-books in one house, therefore I
resolved, ere I gave the matter reflection, to prosecute my
investigations further and ascertain whether there was not a second
book.
With this object I made a second tour around the room, noting the
position of every article of furniture. Some music lay scattered beside
the piano, and, on turning it over, I found the actual copy of Chopin's
"Andante" which had been played on the night of the tragedy. The cover
had been half torn away, but, on examining it closely beneath the light,
I detected plainly a small smear of blood upon it.
Truly the house was one of mystery. In that room several persons had
drunk champagne on that memorable night when blind Fate led me thither;
in that room a woman had, according to the man's shout of alarm, been
foully done to death, although of this latter fact I was not altogether
sure. At any rate, however, it was plain that some tragic event had
previously taken place there, as well as in that room beyond where I had
reclined blind and helpless. It was strange also that the apartment
should remain neglected and undusted, as though the occupants
entertained some dislike to it. But I had been absent long enough, and,
returning to the drawing-room with the missing glasses, handed them to
Mrs Anson.
Hickman had, in my absence, crossed to Mabel, and was sitting beside her
in earnest conversation, therefore I was compelled to seat myself with
my hostess and the Irritating Woman and chat with them. But ere long I
contrived again to reach the side of the woman whom I adored, and to
again press her for an appointment.
"It is far better forme to write to you," she answered, beneath her
breath. "As I've told you, we have so many calls to make and cards to
leave."
"Your mother tells me that you have a box for the Prince of Wales's on
Saturday night, and has asked me to join you," I said. Her eyes
brightened, and I saw that she was delighted at the prospect. But she
expressed a hope that I wouldn't be bored.
"Bored!" I echoed. "Why, I'm never bored when in your company. I fear
that it's the other way about--that I bore you."
"Certainly not," she responded decisively. "I very soon contrive to
give persons who are bores their _conge_. Mother accuses me of rudeness
to them sometimes, but I assure you I really can't help being positively
insulting. Has mother asked you to dine on Saturday?"
"Yes," I answered. "But shan't I see you before then?"
"No; I think it is very unlikely. We'll have a jolly evening on
Saturday."
"But I enjoy immensely those walks across the Park," I blurted forth in
desperation.
"And I also," she admitted with a sweet frankness. "But this week it is
utterly impossible to make any arrangements."
Mention of the theatre afforded me an opportunity of putting to her a
question upon which, during the past couple of hours, I had reflected
deeply.
"You've, of course, been to the Exhibition at Earl's Court, living here
in the immediate vicinity," I said.
"I've only been once," she answered. "Although we've had this house
nearly two years, exhibitions don't appeal to me very much. I was there
at night, and the gardens were prettily illuminated, I thought."
"Yes," I said. "With the exception of the gardens, there is far too
much pasteboard scenic effect. I suppose you noticed that serrated line
of mountains over which the eternal switchback runs? Those self-same
mountains, repainted blue, grey, or purple, with tips of snow, have,
within my personal knowledge, done duty as the Alps, the Pyrenees, the
Rockies, and the Atlas, not counting half a dozen other notable ranges."
She laughed, slowly fanning herself the while.
By her reply I had obtained from her own lips a most important fact in
the inquiry I intended now to prosecute, namely, that this house had
been her home for nearly two years. Therefore it had been in Mrs
Anson's possession at the time of the tragedy.
Since the moment when I had first recognised that; room as the one in
which I had been present on the night of the mysterious assassination,
the possibility had more than once occurred to me that Mrs Anson might
have; unwittingly taken it ready furnished after the committal of the
crime. Such, however, was not the fact. Mabel had asserted that for
nearly two years she had lived, there.
Again, even as I sat there at her side, deep in admiration of her
magnificent figure in that striking toilette of coral-pink, with its
soft garniture of lace and chiffons, I could not help reflecting upon
the curious fact that she should have recognised the dead man's
pencil-case. And she had, by her silence, assented to my suggestion
that he had been her lover. That little gold pencil-case that I had
found in his pocket when he lay dead at that very spot where we were now
sitting had been one of her love-gifts to him.
The mystery hourly grew more puzzling and bewildering. Yet so also each
hour that I was at her side I fell deeper and deeper in love with her,
longing always for opportunity to declare to her the secret of my heart,
yet ever fearing to do so lest she should turn from me.
Our unexpected meeting at Grosvenor Gate, after I had received that
letter from my anonymous correspondent, combined with the startling
discovery that it was actually in her house that the mysterious tragedy
had been enacted; that in that very room the smart, refined young man
who had been her lover had fought so fiercely for life, and had yet been
struck down so unerringly, formed an enigma inscrutable and perplexing.
The mystery, however, did not for one moment cause me to waver in my
affection for her. I had grown to love her fondly and devotedly; to
adore her as my idol, as the one who held my whole future in her hands,
therefore whatever suspicion arose within my mind--and I admit that
grave suspicion did arise on many occasions--I cast it aside and fell
down to worship at the shrine of her incomparable beauty.
Miss Wells's carriage was announced at last, and the Irritating Woman,
tinkling and jingling, rose with a wearied sigh and took her leave,
expressing her thanks for "a most delightful evening, my dear."
Mabel, mischievous as a school-girl, pulled a grimace when the music of
the bangles had faded in the hall outside, at which we laughed in merry
chorus.
With Hickman I remained ten minutes or so longer, then rose, also
declaring that it was time we left. The grave man-servant Arnold served
us with whiskies and sodas in the dining-room, and, Mabel having helped
me on with my covert-coat, we shook hands with our hostess and her
daughter, and left in company.
The night was bright and starlit, and the air refreshing. Turning to
the left after leaving the house, we came immediately to a road which
gave entrance to that secluded oval called The Boltons. I looked at the
name-plate, and saw it was named Gilston Road. It must have been at
this corner that I had been knocked down by a passing cab when, on my
first adventurous journey alone, I had wandered so far westward.
I turned to look back, and noticed that from the dining-room window of
the house we had just left any occurrence at the corner in question
could be distinctly seen. Edna had explained that she had witnessed my
accident from that window, and in this particular had apparently told me
the truth.
The remarkable and unexpected discoveries of that evening had produced a
veritable tumult of thoughts within my brain, and as I walked with
Hickman I took no note of his merry, irresponsible gossip, until he
remarked--
"You're a bit preoccupied, I think. You're pondering over Mabel's good
looks, I suppose?"
"No," I answered, starting at this remark. Then, to excuse myself, I
added, "I was thinking of other things. I really beg your pardon."
"I was asking your opinion of Mabel. Don't you consider her extremely
handsome?"
"Of course," I answered, trying to suppress my enthusiasm. "She's
charming."
"A splendid pianist, too."
"Excellent."
"It has always been a wonder to me that she has never become engaged,"
he remarked. "A girl with her personal charms ought to make an
excellent match."
"Has she never been engaged?" I inquired quickly, eager to learn the
truth about her from this man, who was evidently an old friend of the
family.
"Never actually engaged. There have been one or two little
love-affairs, I've heard, but none of them was really serious."
"He'd be a lucky fellow who married her," I remarked, still striving to
conceal the intense interest I felt.
"Lucky!" he echoed. "I should rather think so, in many ways. It is
impossible for a girl of her beauty and nobility of character to go
about without lots of fellows falling in love with her. Yet I happen to
know that she holds them all aloof, without even a flirtation."
I smiled at this assertion of his, and congratulated myself that I was
the only exception; for had she not expressed pleasure at my
companionship on her walks? But recollecting her admission that the
victim of the assassin's knife had been her lover, I returned to the
subject, in order to learn further facts.
"Who were the men with whom she had the minor love-affairs--any one I
know?" I inquired.
"I think not, because it all occurred before they returned to live in
England," he answered.
"Then you knew them abroad?"
"Slightly. We met in a casual sort of way at Pau, on the Riviera, and
elsewhere."
"Both mother and daughter are alike extremely pleasant," I said. "In
high spirits Mrs Anson is sometimes almost as juvenile as Mabel."
"Quite so," he laughed. "One would never believe that she's nearly
sixty. She's as vivacious and merry as a woman half her age. I've
myself been surprised at her sprightliness often and often."
Again and again I endeavoured to turn the conversation back to the
identity of Mabel's former lover, but he either did not know or
purposely refused to tell me. He spoke now and then with an intentional
vagueness, as though his loyalty to the Ansons prevented him from
betraying any confidences reposed in him as a friend of the family.
Indeed, this cautiousness showed him to be a trustworthy man, and his
character became thereby strengthened in my estimation. On first
acquaintance I had instantly experienced a violent aversion to him, but
now, on this walk together along the Fulham Road, I felt that we should
probably end by becoming friends.
He walked with long strides and a swinging, easy gait that seemed almost
military, while his air of careless merriment as he laughed and joked,
smoking the choice cigar which the man had handed to him in the hall
just before our departure, gave him the aspect of an easy-going
man-about-town.
"I fully expect, my dear fellow," he laughed--"I fully expect that
you'll be falling in love with the pretty Mabel if you're in her company
very much."
"You're chaffing," I protested, echoing his laugh.
"Not at all," he asserted. "Only take care. Love-making with her is a
dangerous pastime--devilish dangerous, I assure you."
"Dangerous to the man's heart--eh?"
"Yes," he responded in a vague tone, glancing at me curiously; "if you
like to put it in that way."
We had passed from the Fulham Road into the King's Road, Chelsea, and at
that moment he halted suddenly at the corner of a street of high,
regularly built houses, most of which were in darkness, saying--"I live
down here. Come in and have a final whisky and soda with me; then you
can take a cab back to the Strand. There are cabs all night on the rank
in Sloane Square."
"I fear it's too late," I protested, glancing at my watch, and finding
it past one o'clock.
"No, no, my dear fellow, come along," he urged. "You'll want a drink
before you get home;" and, thus persuaded, I accompanied him up the
street to one of the high houses, each exactly similar to its neighbour,
with a flight of hearthstoned steps leading up to its front door, and a
deep, grimy basement protected by a few yards of iron railings.
In the hall, although the gas had been extinguished, there remained a
small hand-lamp alight, evidently placed there for his use. This he
took, and conducted me to a front room, upon what the landlady of such a
residence would term her "drawing-room floor." The house smelled close
and stuffy; the furniture of the sitting-room was covered with plush
which had once been crimson, but which was now sadly worn and badly
moth-eaten; the threadbare carpet had been perforated in many places by
hot cigarette-ends carelessly thrown down, and there was a general air
of disorder about the place which seemed incongruous with my friend's
smart air and general demeanour. I believed him to be a gentleman, yet
found that he lived in a not over-clean lodging. To the practical
Londoner, whose fate it is to live in "diggings," apartments in the
neighbourhood of the King's Road are notable as being both dear and
dirty.
He threw off his overcoat, tossed his hat aside, and pulled up a long,
comfortable wicker-chair for me. Then he opened the buffet, and took
therefrom a bottle of whisky and a couple of sodas, with which he
proceeded to mix the drinks, his cigar-stump still in his mouth, even
though he talked all the time, recounting some amusing stories which
caused me to laugh.
I could not quite make him out. The remarks he let fall while, over our
coffee, we had discussed the chances at roulette, led me to the
suspicion that he was a practised gambler, and here in his rooms I
detected evidence that he was fond of sport, of betting, and of other
games of hazard.
We had lit fresh cigars from his own box, and as he sat in his big
armchair he lifted his glass to me merrily, expressing pleasure at our
meeting.
"I hope," he added, "that we shall meet very often. But take my tip, my
dear fellow, and don't fall in love with Mabel Anson."
Why he should emphasise this warning just as Channing had done struck me
as very curious. It might be, of course, that he was in love with her
himself, and regarded me as a possible rival. This, indeed, was the
impression conveyed to me by his words, and it aroused within me a vague
feeling of distrust. That quick sinister glance when I had been
introduced still lingered in my memory.
"I can't think why you should so repeatedly warn me," I remarked,
laughing with affected amusement. "It really isn't likely that I shall
fall in love with her."
He made no response. He only puffed slowly at his cigar, and smiled
cynically through the veil of smoke he created.
I replaced my cigar in my mouth--for my friend was evidently a
connoisseur of Havanas, and this was an excellent one--but at that
instant my tongue, as I twisted it in my mouth, came in contact with the
cut end of the weed, and I felt pricked as if by some sharp point.
Quickly I removed it and examined it closely, exclaiming--
"Do they wrap up needles in your cigars? Look!" And I passed it across
to him, indicating where, protruding from the end, which I had chopped
off with the cutter on my watchguard, was the tiny point of either a
needle or a pin.
"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated, taking it from my hand and examining it
carefully.
But ere a few moments had elapsed I felt a strange sensation creeping
upon me; a curious chilliness ran down my spine, my tongue seemed
swelling until it filled my mouth, and my brain felt aflame.
"God?" I cried, springing to my feet in alarm. "Why, I believe I'm
poisoned!"
"Nonsense!" he laughed. His voice seemed to sound afar off, and I saw
his dog's face slowly assume an expression of evil as he sat opposite,
intently watching me.
A sudden dizziness seized me; a spasm of sharp pain shot through all my
limbs from head to toe; my senses reeled, I could see nothing
distinctly. The man Hickman's ugly visage seemed slowly to fade in a
blurred, blood-red mist.
At that same instant my blood was frozen by terror, for I felt convinced
that this abrasion of my tongue had been planned by my companion's
devilish ingenuity, and that upon that needle-point had been placed some
baneful substance, the action of which was rapid and certain. I saw it
all, now that it was, alas! too late.
With a wild cry I stretched forth both hands to steady myself, but,
staggering, only clutched the air.
Then a strange and utterly unaccountable thing happened to me--stranger
than has ever happened to any other living man.