The encounter was a startling one.
At the moment when my eyes first fell upon the figure standing patiently
in the booking-office awaiting me, I halted for a second in uncertainty.
The silhouette before me was that of a youngish, brown-haired, and
rather good-looking woman, neatly dressed in dead black, wearing a large
hat and a feather boa round her neck.
By the expression of her face I saw that she had recognised me. I had,
of course, never seen her before, yet her personal appearance--the grey
eyes and brown hair--were exactly similar to those described so minutely
on several occasions by West, the cab-driver. I regarded her for a
moment in silent wonder, then advanced to meet her.
She was none other than the unknown woman who had saved my life on that
fateful night at The Boltons--the mysterious Edna!
As I raised my hat she bowed gracefully, and with a merry smile, said:
"I fear that, to you, I am a stranger. I recognise you, however, as Mr
Heaton."
"That is certainly my name," I responded, still puzzled. "And you--
well, our recognition is, I believe, mutual--you are Edna."
She glanced at me quickly, as though suspicious. "How did you know
that?" she inquired. "You have never seen me before. You were totally
blind on the last occasion we met."
"I recognised you from your description," I answered with a light laugh.
"My description!" she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm.
"Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home on
that memorable morning."
"Ah! Of course," she ejaculated in sudden remembrance. Then, for a few
seconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that I
had recognised her had somewhat confused her.
"But I am extremely glad that we have met at last," I assured her. "I
have, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking you
for the great services you once rendered me."
"I find with satisfaction that although six years have gone by you have
not forgotten your promise made to me," she said, her large serious eyes
fixed upon mine.
"I gave you that promise in exchange for my life," I remarked, as, at
her suggestion, we turned and walked out of the station.
"And as acknowledgement of the service you rendered by preserving secret
your knowledge of the events of that terrible night I was enabled to
render you a small service in return," she said. "Your sight was
restored to you."
"For that, how can I sufficiently thank you?" I exclaimed. "I owe it
all to you, and rest assured that, although we have not met until this
evening, I have never forgotten--nor shall I ever forget."
She smiled pleasantly, while I strolled slowly at her side across the
station-yard.
To me those moments were like a dream. Edna, the woman who had hitherto
been but a strange ghost of the past, was now actually beside me in the
flesh.
"I have received other notes making appointments--the last, I think, a
couple of years ago," I observed after a pause. "Did you not meet me
then?"
She glanced at me with a puzzled expression. Of course she knew nothing
of those lost years of my life.
"Meet you?" she repeated. "Certainly not."
"Who met me, then?"
"I really don't know," she answered. "This is the first time I have
approached you, and I only come to you now in order to ask you to grant
me a favour--a very great favour."
"A favour! What is it?"
"I cannot explain here, in the street," she said quickly. "If you will
come to my hotel I will place the facts before you."
"Where are you staying?"
"At the _Bath Hotel_, in Arlington Street."
I knew the place well. It stood at the corner of Arlington Street and
Piccadilly, and was an eminently respectable, old-fashioned place,
patronised by a high-class clientele.
"And you are alone?" I inquired, thinking it strange that she should
thus ask me to her hotel.
"Of course. I have come to London expressly to see you," she responded.
"I went down to Budleigh-Salterton two days ago, but I ascertained at
Denbury that you had left suddenly."
"Whom did you see there?" I inquired, much interested.
"Your butler. He told me some absurd story, how that you had become
temporarily irresponsible for your actions, and had disappeared, leaving
no address."
"And you came to London?"
"Of course."
"And how did you find out where I was hidden, and my assumed name?"
She smiled mysteriously.
"It was easy enough, I assure you. A man of your influence in the City,
and as well known as you are, has considerable difficulty in effectively
concealing his identity."
"But who told you where I was staying?" I demanded.
"Nobody. I discovered it for myself."
"And yet the police have been searching for me everywhere, and have not
yet discovered me!" I remarked, surprised.
"The police have one method," she said. "I have an entirely different
one."
"Tell me one thing," I said, halting in our walk, for we were already at
the commencement of Victoria Street--that street down which I had
wandered blindly on that night long ago when I had lost myself--"tell me
for what reason those previous appointments were made with me at
Grosvenor Gate, at King's Cross, at Eastbourne, and elsewhere?"
"You kept them," she replied. "You surely know."
"No, that's just it," I said. "Of course, I don't expect you to give
credence to what I say--it sounds too absurd--but I have absolutely no
knowledge of keeping those appointments except the one at Grosvenor
Gate, and I am totally ignorant of having met anybody." She paused,
looking me full in the face with those grey eyes so full of mystery.
"I begin to think that what the butler told me contains some truth," she
observed bluntly.
"No," I protested. "My mind is in no way unhinged. I am fully aware of
all that transpired at The Boltons, of--"
"At The Boltons?" she interrupted, turning a trifle pale. "What do you
mean?"
"Of the crime enacted at that house--in The Boltons." She held her
breath. Plainly she was not before aware that I had discovered the spot
where the tragedy had taken place. My words had taken her by surprise,
and it was evident that she was utterly confounded. My discovery I had
kept a profound secret unto myself, and now, for the first time, had
revealed it.
Her face showed how utterly taken aback she was. "There is some
mistake, I think," she said lamely, apparently for want of something
other to say.
"Surely your memory carries you back to that midnight tragedy!" I
exclaimed rather hastily, for I saw she would even now mislead me, if
she could. "I have discovered where it took place--I have since
re-entered that room?"
"You have!" she gasped in the low, hoarse voice of one fearful lest her
secret should be discovered. "You have actually re-discovered the
house--even though you were stone blind?"
"Yes," I answered.
"How did you accomplish it?"
I shrugged my shoulders, answering: "There is an old saying--a very true
one--that `murder will out.'"
"But tell me more. Explain more fully," she urged in an earnest tone.
I hesitated. Next instant, however, I decided to keep my own counsel in
the matter. Her readiness to deny that the events occurred in that
house had re-aroused within me a distinct suspicion.
"It is a long story, and cannot be told here," I answered evasively.
"Then come along to the hotel," she suggested. "I, too, have much to
say to you."
I do not know that I should have obeyed her were it not for the mystery
which had hitherto, veiled her identity. She had saved my life, it is
true, and I supposed that I ought to consider her as a friend, yet in
those few minutes during which I had gazed upon her a curious dislike of
her had arisen within me. She was, I felt certain, not the
straightforward person I had once believed her to be.
Not that there was anything in her appearance against her. On the
contrary, she was a pleasant, smiling, rather pretty woman of perhaps
thirty-five, who spoke with the air and manner of a lady, and who
carried herself well, with the grace of one in a higher social circle.
After a few moments' hesitation my curiosity got the better of my
natural caution, and I determined to hear what she had to say.
Therefore we drove together to the _Bath Hotel_.
In her own private sitting-room, a cosy little apartment overlooking
Piccadilly, opposite Dover Street, she removed her big black hat, drew
off her gloves, and having invited me to a chair, took one herself on
the opposite side of the fireplace. Her maid was there when we entered,
but retired at word from her mistress.
"You, of course, regard it as very curious, Mr Heaton, that after these
six years I should again seek you," she commenced, leaning her arm
lightly upon the little table, and gazing straight into my face without
flinching. "It is true that once I was enabled to render you a service,
and now in return I ask you also to render me one. Of course, it is
useless to deny that a secret exists between us--a secret which, if
revealed, would be disastrous."
"To whom?"
"To certain persons whose names need not be mentioned."
"Why not?"
"Think," she said, very gravely. "Did you not promise that, in return
for your life when you were blind and helpless, you would make no effort
to learn the true facts? It seems that you have already learnt at least
one--the spot where the crime was committed."
"I consider it my duty to learn what I can of this affair," I answered
determinedly.
She raised her eyebrows with an expression of surprise, for she saw that
I was in earnest.
"After your vow to me?" she asked. "Remember that, to acknowledge my
indebtedness for that vow, I searched for the one specialist who could
restore your sight. To my efforts, Mr Heaton, you are now in
possession of that sense that was lost to you."
"I acknowledge that freely," I answered. "Yet, even in that you have
sought to deceive me."
"How?"
"You told me you were not the writer of those letters signed with a
pseudonym."
"And that is true. I was not the actual writer, even though I may have
caused them to be written."
"Having thus deceived me, how can you hope that I can be free with you?"
"I regret," she answered, "that slight deception has been necessary to
preserve the secret?"
"The secret of the crime?"
She nodded.
"Well, and what do you wish to tell me this evening?" She was silent
for a moment, toying with her rings.
"I want to appeal to your generosity. I want you to assist me."
"In what manner?"
"As before."
"As before!" I repeated, greatly surprised. "I have no knowledge of
having assisted you before."
"What?" she cried. "Is your memory so defective that you do not
recollect your transactions with those who waited upon you--those who
kept the previous appointments of which you have spoken?"
"I assure you, madam," I said, quite calmly, "I have not the least idea
of what you mean."
"Mr Heaton!" she cried. "Have you really taken leave of your senses?
Is it actually true what your butler has said of you--that on the day
you left Denbury you behaved like a madman?"
"I am no madman!" I cried with considerable warmth. "The truth is that
I remember nothing since one evening, nearly six years ago, when I was
smoking with--with a friend--in Chelsea, until that day to which my
servant has referred."
"You remember nothing? That is most extraordinary."
"If strange to you, madam, how much more strange to me? I have told you
the truth, therefore kindly proceed to explain the object of these
previous visits of persons you have apparently sent to me."
"I really think that you must be joking," she said. "It seems
impossible that you should actually be unaware."
"I tell you that I have no knowledge whatsoever of their business with
me."
"Then if such is really the case, let me explain," she said. "First, I
think you will admit that your financial transactions with our
Government have brought you very handsome profits."
"I am not aware of having had any transactions with the British
Government," I answered.
"I refer to that of Bulgaria," she explained. "Surely you are aware
that through my intermediary you have obtained great concessions--the
docks at Varna, the electric trams at Sofia, the railway from Timova to
the Servian frontier, not to mention other great undertakings which have
been floated as companies, all of which are now earning handsome
profits. You cannot be ignorant of that!"
I remembered that Gedge had shown me some official parchment which he
had explained were concessions obtained from Prince Ferdinand of
Bulgaria. That this woman had been the means of securing to me the
greater part of the enormous profits which I had apparently made within
the past five years was certainly surprising.
"On the day I recovered consciousness--the day of my departure from
Denbury--I was shown some documents, but took but little heed of them,"
I said.
"You admit, however, that the employment of British capital in Bulgaria
has realised a very handsome profit, and that the greater part of it has
gone into your own pockets?"
"I suppose that is so," I responded. "Is it to you that I am indebted
for those concessions?"
"Certainly."
"Are you, then, an ambassadress of the Principality of Bulgaria?"
"Well, yes--if you choose to put it so."
"Then, as I understand, it is with some further financial object that
you have sought me this evening?"
"Exactly."
This latest development of the affair was certainly most remarkable. I
had never dreamed that to this hitherto unknown woman I had been
indebted for the unparalleled success which had attended my career
during those past six years. Yet, from the facts she subsequently
placed before me, it would seem that it was at her instigation that I
first dabbled in finance. She, or rather her agents, had obtained for
me the negotiation of a substantial loan to Prince Ferdinand, and this
had been followed by all sorts of concessions, not one of which had
tuned out badly.
The mysterious Edna, whom I had always believed to be a typical
blouse-and-bicycle girl of the true Kensington type, was actually a
political agent of that most turbulent of all the European States.
I sat looking at her in wonderment. She possessed a superb carriage, a
smart, well-dressed figure, a smiling, intelligent face, white, even
teeth, a complexion just a trifle dark, but betraying no trace of
foreign birth. Her English was perfect, her manner purely that of the
patrician, while her surprising tact possessed all the _finesse_ of an
accomplished diplomatist.
"I confess that I have all along been in entire ignorance of my
indebtedness to you," I said, after listening to her while she explained
how obediently I had followed the instructions contained in the letters
signed "Avel," and how I had so materially advanced the interests of the
Principality that the thanks of the Bulgarian Parliament, or Sobranje
had been tendered to me, and the Prince himself had a couple of years
ago conferred upon me the highest distinction within his power.
Yet it was more than strange that while this shrewd grey-eyed woman, the
possessor of the secret of that puzzling crime, held aloof from me, she
had ingeniously contrived that I should become the unwitting catspaw of
an unstable State.
I was thinking of Mabel--my thoughts were always of my lost love--and I
was wondering how I might obtain from this woman the secret of her
whereabouts.