Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the
reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the
following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from
which her letter had been dated.
After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from
which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on
May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until
June 5, when they paid their bill and left suddenly.
I glanced at Mabel's letter. It was dated June 4. She had left on the
following day. I could learn nothing further.
In an excited, unsettled state of mind, unable to decide how to act, I
returned to London, and then, out of sheer want of something to do, I
travelled down to Heaton. The old place was the same: neglected and
deserted, but full of memories of days bygone. Old Baxter and his wife
were both dead, and the caretakers were fresh servants whom my agent had
apparently engaged. I also learnt that Parker, the faithful old woman
who had tended to my wants in Essex Street, had also passed away more
than two years before.
I spent a dismal day wandering through the house and park, then drove
back to Tewkesbury, and on the following morning returned to London. In
the six years that had elapsed since my last visit to the Manor nothing
had changed save, perhaps, that the grass had grown more luxuriantly
over the gravelled drive, and the stone exterior was being gradually
rendered grey by the lichen which in those parts overgrows everything.
The mystery of the crime, and of the singular events which had followed,
formed an enigma which seemed utterly beyond solution.
My nerves were shattered. As the days went by an increasing desire
possessed me to ascertain more of that woman who called herself Grainger
and was the confidential emissary of a reigning prince. She alone knew
the truth, therefore why should I not carefully watch her movements, and
endeavour to discover her intentions? From the veiled threat she had
muttered, it was evident that although she did not fear any revelations
that I might make, yet she regarded me as a person detrimental to her
interests. As long as I had acted as her agent in negotiating loans for
the Principality, she had secured for me high favour in the eyes of
Prince Ferdinand. But the fact that I had gained consciousness and
refused to assist her further had taken her completely by surprise.
That same evening I called at the _Bath Hotel_, and ascertained that
"Mrs Grainger" had left some days before. She had not, it appeared,
given any address where letters might be forwarded, but a judicious tip
administered to a hall-porter caused him suddenly to recollect that a
couple of days before her departure she had sent a dressing-bag to a
trunk-maker's a little further down Piccadilly, to be repaired. This
bag had not been returned to the hotel, therefore it was quite probable,
thought the hall-porter, that the trunk-maker had forwarded it to her.
"You know the people at the trunk-maker's, of course?" I said.
"Yes, sir. Many visitors here want repairs done to their boxes and
bags."
"The _Bath Hotel_ is therefore a good customer?" I remarked. "They
would certainly give you her address if you asked for it."
He seemed a trifle dubious, but at my request went along to the shop,
and a quarter of an hour later returned with an address.
She had not moved far, it appeared. Only to the _Midland Hotel_ at St
Pancras.
Late that night I myself left the _Grand_, and, assuming a name that was
not my own, took a room at the _Midland_, in order to commence my
observations upon her movements. It was certainly a risky business, for
I knew not when I might encounter her in the vestibule, in the lift, or
in the public rooms. As soon as my room was assigned to me, I glanced
through the list eagerly, but it was evident that if she were there she,
too, had changed her name. In the long list of visitors was one, that
of Mrs Slade. Slade? The name was familiar. It was that of the
doctor who had given me back my sight. That name struck me as being the
most probable. She occupied a room on the same floor as mine, numbered
406. The door of that room I intended to watch.
My vigilance on the morrow was rewarded, for about eleven o'clock in the
morning I saw Edna emerge from the room dressed to go out. She passed
my door and descended by the stairs, while I took my hat and swiftly
followed her at a safe distance from observation.
The porter called her a hansom, and I saw her neat, black-robed figure
mount into the conveyance. She had a letter in her hand, and read the
address to the porter, who in turn repeated it to the driver.
Meanwhile, I had entered another cab, and telling the man to keep Edna's
cab in sight, we drove along King's Cross Road and Farringdon Street to
the City, passing along Gresham Street and Lothbury. Suddenly the cab I
was following turned into Austin Friars, while my driver, an intelligent
young fellow, pulled up at the corner of Throgmorton Street and said--
"We'd better wait here, sir, if you don't want the lady to notice us.
She's going into an office at number 14, opposite the Dutch Church."
"Get down," I said, "and try and find out whose office she's gone into,"
and I added a promise to give him an extra gratuity for so doing.
"Very well, sir," he answered. I sat back, hiding my face in a
newspaper for fear of being recognised in that great highway of
business, while he went along Austin Friars to endeavour to discover
whose offices she had entered.
Some ten minutes later he returned with the information that the lady
had entered the office of a moneylender named Morrison.
The thought occurred to me that she was perhaps still endeavouring to
raise the loan for Prince Ferdinand. If so, however, why had she left
the _Bath Hotel_ and endeavoured to conceal her identity under another
name?
After twenty minutes or so she came out rather flushed and excited,
stood for a moment in hesitation upon the kerb, and then giving her
cabman an address was driven off. I, of course, followed, but judge my
astonishment when the cab pulled up in Old Broad Street and she alighted
at Winchester House. After a few moments she found the brass plate
bearing my name, and ascending to my office, for what purpose I knew
not, and, fearing to reveal my presence in London, I could not
ascertain.
I sat there in the cab in full view of that row of windows, with their
wire blinds bearing my name, an exile and a fugitive, wondering what
might be the object of her visit. It was not, however, of long
duration, but when she descended again she was accompanied by my
secretary Gedge, who handed her into her cab and afterwards took his
seat beside her. By his manner it was evident they were not strangers,
and it became impressed upon me that, in those lost days of mine, I must
have had considerable dealings with her and her princely employer.
They drove to the Liverpool Street Railway-Station, where she dispatched
a telegram; then they lunched at Crosby Hall.
I feared, of courser to approach them sufficiently near to overhear
their conversation, but I peered into the restaurant and saw them
sitting at a table in earnest conversation, the subject of which was
evidently myself.
It was a wearisome task waiting for her in Bishopsgate Street, but I
lunched in a neighbouring public-house off a glass of sherry and a
biscuit, while my cabman partook gladly of the homely "half-pint" at my
expense, until at length they both came forth.
Gedge called her a cab, and then took leave of her, while I followed her
back to the _Midland_, having successfully accomplished my first essay
at watching her movements.