"You apparently don't recognise me, Mr Heaton."
"No, madam," I answered, taken aback. "You have certainly the advantage
of me."
This recognition was startling, for was I not flying to London to escape
my friends? This woman, whoever she was, would without doubt recount
her meeting with me.
"It is really very droll," she laughed. "I felt sure from the first,
when you entered the compartment, that you didn't know me."
"I certainly don't know you," I responded coldly--
She smiled. "Ah! I expect it's my veil," she said.
"But it's really remarkable that you should not recognise Joliot, your
wife's maid."
"You! My wife's maid!" I gasped, recognising in an instant how
cleverly I had been run to earth.
"Yes," she replied. "Surely you recognise me?" and she raised her veil,
displaying a rather unprepossessing face, dark and tragic, as though
full of some hidden, sorrow.
I had never seen the woman before in my life, but instantly I resolved
to display no surprise and act with caution.
"Ah, of course!" I said lamely. "The light here is so bad, you know,
that I didn't recognise you. And where are you going?"
"To London--to the dressmaker's."
"Mrs Heaton has sent you on some commission, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"You joined this train at Exeter, then?"
"I came from Exmouth to Exeter, and changed," she explained. "I saw you
get in at Lympston." My heart sank within me. It was evident that this
woman had been sent by my self-styled wife to keep watch upon my
movements. If I intended to escape I should be compelled to make terms
with her.
Those sharp dark eyes, with a curious light in them--eyes that seemed
strangely staring and vacant at times--were fixed upon me, while the
smile about her thin lips was clearly one of triumph, as though she had
caught me in the act of flying from my home.
I reflected, but next moment resolved to take her into my confidence. I
disliked her, for her manner was somewhat eccentric, and, furthermore, I
had only her own word that she was really maid to that angular woman who
called herself my wife. Nevertheless, I could do naught else than make
a bargain with her.
"Now," I said at last, after some desultory conversation, "I want to
make a suggestion to you. Do you think that if I gave you a ten-pound
note you could forget having met me to-night? Do you think that you
could forget having seen me at all?"
"Forget? I don't understand."
"Well, to put it plainly, I'm going to London, and I have no desire that
anybody should know that I'm there," I explained. "When I am found to
be missing from Denbury, Mrs Heaton will do all in her power to
discover me. You are the only person who knows that I've gone to
London, and I want you to hold your tongue."
She smiled again, showing an even row of white teeth.
"I was sent by my mistress to travel by this train and to see where you
went," she said bluntly.
"Exactly as I thought," I answered. "Now, you will accept this as a
little present, and return to Denbury to-morrow after a fruitless
errand--utterly fruitless, you understand?"
She took the ten sovereigns I handed her, and transferred them to her
purse, promising to say nothing of having met me.
I gathered from her subsequent conversation that she had been maid to
Mrs Heaton ever since her marriage, and that she had acted as
confidential servant. Many things she mentioned incidentally were of
the greatest interest to me, yet they only served to show how utterly
ignorant I was of all the past.
"But why did you disclose your identity?" I inquired, when the lights
showed that we were entering the London suburbs.
"Because I felt certain that you didn't recognise me," she laughed; "and
I had no wish to spy upon you, knowing as I do that your life is the
reverse of happy."
"Then you pity me, eh?"
"I scarcely think that is the word that one of my position ought to
use," she answered, with some hesitation. "Your life has, since your
marriage, not been of the happiest, that's certain."
"And so you have no intention of telling any one where I've gone?" I
asked eagerly.
"None in the least, sir. Rest assured that I shall say nothing--not a
single word."
"I thank you," I said, and sat back pondering in silence until the train
ran into Waterloo, where we parted, she again reassuring me of her
intention to keep my secret.
I congratulated myself upon a very narrow escape, and, taking a cab,
drove straight to Trafalgar Square. As I crossed Waterloo Bridge the
long line of lights on the Embankment presented the same picture as they
had ever done. Though six years had passed since I had last had
knowledge of London, nothing had apparently changed. The red
night-glare in the leaden sky was still the same; the same unceasing
traffic; the same flashing of bright dresses and glittering jewels as
hansoms passed and repassed in the Strand--just as I had known London by
night during all my life.
The gold-braided porter at the _Grand_ handed me out of the cab, and I
ascended by the lift to the room allotted to me like a man in a dream.
It hardly seemed possible that I could have been absent in mind from
that whirling, fevered world of London for six whole years. I had given
a false name in the reception bureau, fearing that those people who
called themselves my friends--Heaven save the mark!--might make
inquiries and cause my arrest as a wandering lunatic. I had no baggage,
and I saw that the hotel-clerk looked upon me with some suspicion.
Indeed, I threw down a couple of sovereigns, well knowing the rules that
no person without luggage was taken unless he paid a deposit beforehand.