“I cannot live without you, Cecily. This bogy of yours shall not
separate us. Surely my love is strong enough to help you to bear
whatever the future can hold. Till the last hour of my life I shall be
your devoted lover, Tony.”
A momentary sensation of warmth and light ran through Cecily's cold
frame as she read the impassioned sentences. Very resolutely she had
put Anthony Collyer's love from her. She had told herself that she was
a moral leper set far apart from all thoughts of love or marriage. It
was not in the nature of a mortal girl to read such words and remain
unmoved.
She was sitting at her table in Madeline Bechcombe's private
sitting-room. As she finished reading her letter she made a movement
as though to tuck it in the breast of her gown, then, changing her
mind, she tossed it into the very centre of the bright fire on the
hearth.
At this same moment Mrs. Bechcombe came into the room. She glanced
curiously at the paper just bursting into momentary flame.
“I wish you would not burn papers here, Miss Hoyle,” she said
fretfully. “It does litter up the hearth so and there is a
waste-paper-basket over there.”
“I am very sorry, I quite forgot,” Cecily said penitently. “Mrs.
Bechcombe, this is a letter from Lady Chard-Green. She wants you to go
to them for a week-end, the 3rd or the 10th if that would suit you
better.”
“They will neither of them suit me at all,” Mrs. Bechcombe said
decisively. “You can tell her so. I wonder whether she would feel
inclined to go about week-ending if her husband had been cruelly
murdered?”
Cecily shivered as she took up the next letter.
“This is from Colonel Chalmers. He has just returned to England,
and——”
“I don't care what he has done,” Mrs. Bechcombe interrupted. “I really
only came in to tell you that I do not feel well enough to attend to
letters or anything else this morning. So you need not stay—it will
give you a little more time to yourself.”
“Thank you very much.” Cecily hesitated. “But can I not do anything
for you, Mrs. Bechcombe? Perhaps if your head is bad again, you might
let me read to you.”
“No, no! I could not stand it. It would drive me mad,” Mrs. Bechcombe
responded, with the irritability that was becoming habitual with her.
“No, when I feel like this, I must be alone. I mean it.”
Cecily was nothing loath to leave her work and go out into the air. It
was a lovely day. The sky was blue as Londoners seldom see it, tiny
fleecy clouds of white just floating across it emphasizing the depth
of colour. Spring seemed to be calling to the youth in her to come
into the country and rejoice with the new life that was springing into
being everywhere. And Cecily must go to Burford. She had intended to
go when her day's work was over, but now she could start at once. Like
a great black thundercloud over the brightness of the day the thought
of Burford and of her errand there overhung everything. She made up
her mind to take the first train down and get the thing over.
She made her way to the station at once. Trains to Burford ran
frequently and she had not long to wait. She occupied the time by
getting a cup of tea and a bun in the refreshment room, but though she
had had nothing but a piece of dry toast for her breakfast she could
not eat. She only crumbled the bun, one of the station variety, while
she drank the tea thirstily. She did not notice that a shabbily
dressed small boy who had been loitering outside the house in
Carlsford Square had dogged her steps to the station and now sat
reading a dilapidated copy of “Tit-Bits” outside on the seat nearest
the refreshment room.
The station for Burford was soon reached. Cecily, who was fond of
walking, made up her mind to walk to Rose Cottage instead of taking
the shabby one-horse cab that stood outside the station, but she was
out of practice and she was distinctly tired when she reached her
destination.
The housekeeper received her with evident amazement.
“Miss Hoyle! Well, I never! And I have been expecting your pa down
every day this past week!”
“Well, I have come instead, you see. I hope I am not a dreadful
disappointment,” Cecily said, calling up a smile with an effort as she
shook hands. She did not know much of Mrs. Wye and what little she did
know she did not much like, but she knew that the woman had been a
long time with her father and felt that it behoved her to make herself
pleasant.
The housekeeper held open the sitting-room door and Cecily walked in
and sat down with an air of relief.
“My father has been ill, Mrs. Wye. That is why he has not been down
here lately. He is much better now and I am hoping to take him to the
sea soon to convalesce. In the meantime he wants some papers from the
desk in his bedroom and I have come to fetch them.”
“I am very sorry to hear Mr. Hoyle has been ill, miss,” and the woman
really did look concerned. “We have had several people here asking
after him of late and there is a lot of letters. But I never know
where to forward them. I take it Mr. Hoyle will have been in a
nursing-home, miss?”
“Er—oh, yes.” Cecily began to feel that even this woman might want to
know too much. “Perhaps you would get me a cup of tea, Mrs. Wye,” she
went on. “I hadn't time for lunch before I started and though I had
some tea at the station it wasn't up to much. It never is at stations,
somehow.”
“You are right there, miss,” Mrs. Wye agreed. “And is the master out
of the nursing-home now, might I ask, miss?”
“Oh, yes. He is with friends,” Cecily said vaguely. Her colour
deepened as she spoke.
The housekeeper's little eyes watched her curiously. “Perhaps you
would give me an address I could forward the letters to, miss.”
“Oh, of course!” Cecily got up. She could not sit here to be badgered
by this woman who she began to feel was inimical to her. “I will get
the things my father wants,” she went on. “For I must catch an early
train back. I do not want to be away longer than necessary.”
She went upstairs to the front bedroom which she knew to be her
father's. It was spotlessly clean and tidy, but it had the bare look
of a room that has been unoccupied for a long time. The desk stood on
a small table near the window. Cecily had the key, and the envelope
for which she had come down was lying just at the top. A long rather
thin envelope inscribed 11260. Doubled up it just fitted into Cecily's
handbag. She pushed it in and shut it with a snap. Then she sat down
in a basket-work chair near the open window. She really could not
start back without some rest, and she was not anxious to encounter
Mrs. Wye again. As she sat there her thoughts went back to Tony's
letter; and though she told herself that nothing could come of it the
recollection of his love seemed to fall like sunshine over her,
cheering and enveloping her.
She was feeling more herself when her eyes mechanically straying past
the little garden with its ordered paths and flower-beds fixed
themselves on the road that ran beyond. Suddenly they focused
themselves upon an object nearly opposite the cottage gate. Slowly the
colour ebbed from her cheeks and lips, her eyes grew wide and
frightened, the hands lying on her lap began to twitch and twine
themselves nervously together.
Yet at first sight there seemed nothing in the road outside to account
for her agitation—just a heap of broken stones and sitting by it a
worn, tired-looking old tramp. Just a very ordinary-looking old man.
Yet Cecily got up, and, craning forward while keeping herself in the
shadow as much as possible, tried to view him from every possible
angle. Surely, surely, she said to herself, it could not be the very
same old man to whom she had seen John Steadman give a penny outside
the house in Carlsford Square only that very morning! Yet try to
persuade herself as she might, that it could not be the same, she knew
from the first moment beyond the possibility of a doubt that there was
no mistake. And that could mean only one thing, that she was being
followed, that they suspected—what? She began to shiver all over. Then
one idea seemed to take possession of her. Almost she could have
fancied it had been whispered in her ear by some outside unseen
agency. She must get back to town without delay, by the very next
train, she must take that mysterious envelope to its destination at
once. She ran downstairs. Mrs. Wye was laying the table.
“I thought maybe you would relish a dish of ham and eggs. Butcher's
meat is a thing we can't come at out here at the end of the week, not
unless it is ordered beforehand.”
“Oh, no, no! Please don't trouble to cook anything. I will just have a
bit of bread and butter. Indeed I would rather,” Cecily protested. “I
find I must get back again as quickly as possible. I have forgotten
something in town.”
She sat down and drawing the plate of brown bread and butter towards
her managed to eat a piece while she drank a cup of the strong tea
Mrs. Wye poured out for her.
“It isn't any use your hurrying,” the housekeeper babbled on. “You
will have plenty of time to make a good meal and walk slowly to the
station and still have time to spare, before eight o'clock.”
“Ah, but I want to get the half-past six,” Cecily said quickly. “I
shall have time if I start at once, I think.”
“You might, but then again you might not,” Mrs. Wye said in a
disappointed tone. The hour's gossip to which she had been looking
forward was apparently not coming off. “You would save a few minutes
by taking the footpath at the back,” she added honestly. “You cut off
a good bit past Burford Parish Church that way.”
The back! Cecily's heart gave a great throb. Would she be able to
escape that watcher in the front after all?
“Do you mean at the back of this cottage?” she questioned.
“Dear me, yes, miss. It is a favourite walk of the poor master's. If
you go out of the front you just go round the house. Or you can get on
to the path by our back door and the little gate behind we use for
bringing in coal and such-like.”
“I will go by the back, please,” Cecily said, standing up. “No, thank
you, Mrs. Wye, I really can't eat any more. And I will write and let
you know how my father is in a day or two.”
She made her escape from the loquacious housekeeper with a little more
difficulty, and sped quickly on to the path pointed out to her,
clutching the precious handbag tightly to her side. She almost ran
along the footpath in her anxiety to reach the station and was
delighted to find herself there with a quarter of an hour to spare.
She bought her ticket and then ensconced herself in the waiting-room
in a corner so that she could watch the approach to the station and
find out whether the old beggar was on her track.
As soon as the train was signalled she went out on the platform, and
managed to find a seat in an empty carriage. It did not remain empty
long, however. There were more people waiting for the train than she
had expected. Evidently the 6.30, slow though it might be, was popular
in Burford. The carriage, a corridor one, was soon full. Cecily took
her seat by the window, clutching her handbag closely to her, and
winding the cord tightly round her wrist. Opposite to her was a young,
smart-looking man, who showed a desire to get the window to her liking
which was distinctly flattering. Next to him sat a young woman, very
pale and delicate-looking. Beyond her again was an elderly woman
apparently of the respectable lodging house keeper type. The other
seats were occupied by a couple of working men, one with his bag of
tools on his shoulder. Cecily, after one look round, decided that she
was certainly safe here. She had brought a pocket edition of Keats's
poems with her, and she took it out now and, opening the book at
“Isabella and the Pot of Basil,” was soon deep in it.
The man opposite was reading, the old lady beside him was sleeping,
the two working men were staring at the flying landscape with
uninterested, lack-lustre eyes, half-open mouths and one hand planted
on each knee. Cecily after her unwonted exercise in the open air felt
inclined to sleep herself, but she remembered the contents of her bag
and resolutely resisted the inclination of her eyelids to droop. Still
she was feeling pleasantly drowsy when they ran into the long tunnel
between Rushleigh and Fairford. The man opposite her put down his
paper and leaned across her to draw up the window with a murmured
“Excuse me.”
At the same moment the light went out. There was a chorus of
exclamations, a shriek from the old lady beside Cecily, something very
like a swear word from the man opposite. In a trice he had lighted a
match and held it up. “It is not much of a light,” he said
apologetically, “but it is better than nothing and I have plenty to
last to the end of the tunnel.”
Then he uttered a sharp exclamation. Cecily's eyes followed his. She
saw that the old lady next her had slipped sideways, the pretty apple
colour in her cheeks had faded, that the pendulous cheeks had become a
sickly indefinite grey. The man in the corner dropped his match and
lighted another. He moved up the seat and struck another.
“She has fainted,” he announced. “In itself that is not serious, but I
am a doctor and I should say she has heart trouble. She certainly
ought not to travel alone.”
Already they were getting through the tunnel. Cecily felt the old lady
lurch against her and lie like a dead weight against her arm. The girl
put out her other hand and held the helpless form tightly. As the
light spread the doctor leaned over and felt the woman's pulse.
“She must be laid flat,” he said briefly. “Will you help me?” He
beckoned to the man at the other end, and between them they raised the
woman, and laid her down. Cecily unfastened a scarf that was twisted
tightly round the flabby neck. The doctor's quick, capable fingers
produced a pair of scissors from a case and cut down the woolen jumper
in front, then from a handbag he produced a tiny phial. From this he
poured just one drop into the poor woman's mouth, while Cecily by his
directions fanned her vigorously with a sheet of newspaper. By and by
they were rewarded by signs of returning consciousness, and presently
the patient opened her eyes and gazed round questioningly at the
strange faces. Then she began to sit up and try to pull her jumper
together with shaking fingers.
“Did I faint?” she asked tremulously. “I—I know it all went dark, and
then I don't remember any more.”
“Don't try!” advised the doctor, “just rest as long as you can. I
think we can manage a pillow for you.” He disposed his bag and rug
behind her so that she was propped up against the end of the carriage.
As she watched him fix the handbag, Cecily was suddenly reminded of
her own bag with its precious contents. With a certain prevision of
evil she clapped her free hand on her wrist. The bag was gone! She
remembered that it had been in her way when she began to help with the
invalid—then she could remember no more. Withdrawing her hand from the
sick woman's grasp, she began to search feverishly among the
newspapers and various odds and ends that were strewn all over the
compartment. The doctor looked at her.
“You have lost something? Your bag? Oh, now where did I see it? Oh, I
remember—you put it down here.” He produced it from the side of his
patient, from between her and the wood of the compartment, and handed
it to her.
Cecily almost snatched it from him. How had she come to let it fall,
she asked herself passionately. But had she dropped it or had it been
taken from her? She fumbled with the clasp with fingers that were numb
with fear. Yes, yes! There it was, that mysterious packet, just as she
had placed it, and with a sigh of relief she sat down again and leaned
back.
There was little more to be done for the woman who was ill. She lay
quietly in her seat until they ran into the London terminus. Then
Cecily leaned forward.
“Will your friends meet you?” she asked gently. “Or can I help you?”
The sick woman did not open her eyes.
“I shall be met, thank you. Thank you all so much.”
Quite a crowd of porters, apparently beckoned by the guard, appeared
at the door. The doctor smiled as he stood aside for Cecily.
“You have been a most capable assistant.”
“Thank you!” Cecily gave him a cold little smile of farewell as she
sprang out.
She hesitated a moment outside the station, then she beckoned to a
passing taxi and gave her address at the Hobart Residence. She was
taking no further risks, and her hand held the handbag firmly with its
precious contents intact until it had been safely locked up in her
desk.
Meanwhile another taxi had flashed out of the station and bowled
swiftly in the opposite direction to that which she had taken. In it
were seated side by side the woman who had been ill in the train, now
marvellously recovered, and the smart young doctor, while opposite to
them there lounged one of the working men who had been sitting at the
other end of the compartment.
Half an hour later, Inspector Furnival, busily writing at his desk in
his room at Scotland Yard, looked up sharply as there was a tap at the
door.
“Come in!”
The door opened to admit a man who bore a strong resemblance to the
young doctor of the train, though in some subtle fashion a curious
metamorphosis seemed to have overtaken him. To Cecily he had seemed to
be all doctor—now, he looked to even a casual observer all policeman
as he saluted his superior.
The inspector glanced at him.
“Any luck, Masterman?”
For answer Masterman held out a piece of paper on which a few words
were scrawled.
The inspector drew his brows together over it.
“Samuel Horsingforth,” he read, “Sta. Irica, Portugal.” Then he looked
up at his subordinate. “You have done very well, Masterman. This is
really all that is essential.”
Masterman, well-pleased, saluted again.
“I thought it would be, sir. And it was really all we had time for.
Miss Hoyle is not an easy nut to crack.”