On entering the Calais express at the Gare du Nord in Paris on my way
home, I was agreeably surprised to find among my fellow travellers to
England the affable French banker whom I had met on that memorable
journey from York to London. He recognized me at once, and I inquired
why he was not, as usual, crossing by air to Croydon.
"Ah!" he laughed. "The last time I crossed three weeks ago we went
into a thick fog over the Channel, and it was not very comfortable. So
I prefer the rail just now."
On this occasion we exchanged cards. His name was Gaston Suzor, and
between Paris and Calais we discussed many things, for he was a
well-informed man and a true hater of the Boches. On the steamer we
strolled upon the deck together, and we passed quite a pleasant
journey in company. He was surprised that I had been in Italy, but I
explained that I had been granted long leave of absence by my firm,
and that I had gone to Florence upon private affairs.
We parted at Charing Cross, Monsieur Suzor to go to the Carlton, and I
home to our little flat in Rivermead Mansions.
A note lay upon the dining-room table. Hambledon was away in Cardiff,
and he had left word in case I should return unexpectedly. The place
was cold and fireless, and I was glad to go over to the Claredon to
have my dinner.
My one thought was of Gabrielle Tennison, who lived with her mother in
a maisonette at Earl's Court. So I took a taxi to Longridge Road, and
after numerous inquiries at neighbouring shops in Earl's Court Road, I
discovered in which house lived Mrs. Tennison and her daughter. The
hour was late, therefore I felt that it was useless to keep
observation upon the place in the hope of the girl coming forth.
I had no excuse to make a call. Besides, I might, if I acted
indiscreetly, destroy all my chances of solving the strange enigma.
Therefore not until ten o'clock on the following morning did I take up
my vigilant watch at the end of the road, at a spot from which I had
full view of the house in question. My watch proved a long and weary
one, for not until three o'clock in the afternoon was my patience
rewarded.
The front door suddenly opened, and down the steps came the slim
figure of a girl, followed by a woman. As they approached me I saw
that it was the girl I had seen with Moroni in Florence, while the
woman was, from her dress, evidently an old servant.
The girl of mystery was attired quite smartly in black, her appearance
being very different from the shabby figure she presented in Florence.
But her beautiful countenance was just as pathetic, with that strange
set expression of ineffable sadness. She passed me by without glancing
at me, while the stout, homely woman at her side held her arm linked
in hers.
They turned into Earl's Court Road and walked towards Kensington High
Street, while I followed at a respectable distance. I could not fail
to notice the grace of carriage of the girl whose listless attitude
was so mysterious, and whose exact whereabouts Oswald De Gex was
concealing from his friend, Mrs. Cullerton. But the one point which
puzzled me sorely was whether the girl walking in front of me all
unconscious of my presence was the same that I had seen dead at
Stretton Street, and for whom I had given a false certificate to cover
up what had evidently been a crime with malice aforethought.
The pair now and then became lost in the crowd of foot-passengers in
busy Kensington, but I followed them. Occasionally they paused to look
into Barker's shop windows, but the interest was evidently on the part
of the serving-woman, for Gabrielle Tennison--or whatever her actual
name--seemed to evince no heed of things about her. She walked like
one in a dream, with her thoughts afar off, yet her face was the
sweetest, most beautiful, and yet the saddest I had ever witnessed.
Tragedy was written upon her pale countenance, and I noticed that one
or two men and women in passing the pair turned to look back at them.
In that face of flawless beauty a strange story was written--a mystery
which I was strenuously seeking to solve.
Presently they entered Kensington Gardens, strolling along the
gravelled walks beneath the bare, leafless trees that were so black
with London's grime. The day was cold, but bright, hence quite a
number of persons were walking there, together with the usual crowd of
nursemaids with the children of the well-to-do from the Hyde Park and
Kensington districts.
The pair passed leisurely half-way up the Broad Walk, when they
presently rested upon a seat nearly opposite the great façade of
Kensington Palace.
I saw that I had not been noticed either by the old servant or by her
mysterious young mistress, therefore I sank quickly upon a seat some
distance away, but in such a position that I could still see them as
they talked together.
Was Gabrielle Engledue living--or was she dead? Or was Gabrielle
Tennison and Gabrielle Engledue one and the same person? A living face
is different from that of the same person when dead, hence the great
problem presenting itself.
It seemed as though in conversation the girl became animated, for she
gesticulated slightly as though in angry protest at some remark of her
companion, and then suddenly I had a great surprise.
Coming down the Broad Walk I saw a figure in a grey overcoat and soft
brown hat which I instantly recognized. He walked straight to where
the pair were seated, lifted his hat, and then seated himself beside
the girl.
The man was my French friend, Suzor!
That they had gone there on purpose to meet him was now quite clear,
for after a few moments the old woman laughed, rose and walked on, in
order to leave the girl alone with the Frenchman. What could be the
meaning of that clandestine meeting?--for clandestine it was, or
Monsieur Suzor would have called at Longridge Road. Possibly they
expected that they might be watched, hence they had met as though by
accident at that spot where they believed they would not be observed.
Gaston Suzor was a shrewd, clever man. But what did this friendship
with Gabrielle Tennison denote? As I watched I saw him speaking very
earnestly. For some time she sat with her gloved hands idly in her lap
listening to his words without comment. Then she shook her head, and
put up her hands in protest. Afterwards by her attitude she seemed to
be appealing to him, while he remained obdurate and unperturbed.
I longed to overhear their conversation, but in the fading light of
that brief wintry afternoon it was impossible to approach closer. I
could only sit and watch. My eyes were strained to see every gesture
of the pair, now that the stout figure of the girl's companion had
disappeared towards the Bayswater Road. In that oasis in the desert of
aristocratic London one can obtain quite sylvan surroundings. True,
the trees and vegetation are covered with a film of grime from the
millions of smoking chimneys of the giant metropolis, still Kensington
Gardens ever possesses a charm all its own as a clandestine
meeting-place for well-born lovers and ill-born loafers, for
nursemaids and soldiers, and for persons of both sexes who wish for a
little quiet talk in the open air in order so often to clear a hectic
atmosphere.
Such I judged to be the case between Gaston Suzor and Gabrielle
Tennison.
At first the girl sat inert with downcast eyes listening to the man.
But suddenly she raised her hands in quick protest again, and
apparently became resentful--even angry. Then when he spoke some
reassuring words she became calmer.
As I sat there shrewdly watching, I could not help reflecting upon a
still further problem which now presented itself. The very last person
in the world whom I should have suspected of being connected with the
strange affair at Stretton Street was my affable friend the French
banker. I now began to wonder if my first meeting with him in the
express train between York and King's Cross just before my amazing
adventure had been simply by chance, or had it any connection between
that meeting and the trap which had, without a doubt, been so
cunningly prepared for me as I passed through Stretton Street to my
uncle's house on the following evening.
The fact that I had again met the mysterious Suzor at the Gare du
Nord, in Paris, just as I was on my way back to London to pursue
further inquiries was, in itself, suspicious. I confess that I sat
utterly bewildered. One thing was plain, namely, that he had no
suspicion that I was keeping such close observation upon Gabrielle. I
knew where she lived, and to me he had given his hotel address.
At last, after quite twenty minutes of serious conversation, the
stout, flat-footed servant returned, and after a few pleasant words
with her, Suzor rose, and raising his hat, left them.
Instantly it occurred to me that, as I knew the girl's abode, it would
be more useful perhaps to watch the movements of my friend the French
banker.
He took the path which skirted the lake, and then cut down the
straight way which leads to Alexandra Gate into Rotten Row, while I
followed him far behind though I kept him well in sight. He went
swiftly at a swinging pace, for he had apparently grown cold while
seated there in the north wind. The ground was hard and frosty, and
the sky grey and lowering, with every evidence that a snowstorm might
be expected.
He walked the whole length of Rotten Row, that leafy way which is so
animated when social London disports itself in the season, and which
on a black wintry afternoon, when the smart set are on the Riviera or
in Egypt, is so dull and deserted. At Hyde Park Corner he turned along
Piccadilly, until he hailed a passing taxi, to the driver of which he
gave deliberate instructions.
I glanced around, and very fortunately saw another disengaged taxi,
which I entered, giving the man instructions to keep the other in
view, with a promise of double fare. Instantly the man entered into
the spirit of the enterprise, and away we went towards the Circus, and
thence by way of Oxford Street to the Euston Road, where before a
small private hotel quite close to the station Suzor descended, and,
paying the man, entered.
For three hours I waited outside, but he did not emerge. Then I went
to the Carlton, and from the reception-clerk ascertained that Monsieur
Suzor was staying there, but he did not always sleep there. Sometimes
he would be absent for two or three nights. He went away into the
country, the smart young clerk believed.
Hence I established the curious fact that Gaston Suzor when in London
had two places of abode, one in that best-known hotel, and the other
in the obscurity of a frowsy house patronized by lower-class visitors
to London.
What could be the motive, I wondered?
I returned to the Carlton at midnight and inquired for Monsieur Suzor.
The night-clerk told me that he had not yet returned.
So I went back to the cold cheerlessness of Rivermead Mansions, and
slept until the following morning.
At each turn I seemed to be confronted by mystery which piled upon
mystery. Ever before my eyes I saw that handsome girl lying cold and
lifeless, and I had forged a certificate in the name of a well-known
medical man, upon which her body had been reduced to ashes! That I had
acted as accomplice to some cunning and deliberate crime I could not
disguise from myself. It was now up to me to make amends before God
and man, to strive to solve the enigma and to bring the guilty persons
to justice.
This was what I was endeavouring, with all my soul, to accomplish.
Yet the point was whether Gabrielle Engledue was really dead, or
whether she still existed in the person of Gabrielle Tennison. That
was the first fact for me to establish.
Next morning I rose early and gazed across the cold misty Thames to
the great factories and wharves upon the opposite bank. The outlook
was indeed dull and dispiriting, I stood recalling how Moroni had
walked with the beautiful girl in the streets of Florence, unwillingly
it seemed, for he certainly feared lest his companion be recognized. I
also recollected the strange conversation I had heard with my own
ears, and the curious attitude which little Mrs. Cullerton had adopted
towards me, even though she had revealed to me the whereabouts of
Gabrielle Tennison.
My breakfast was ready soon after eight o'clock, and afterwards I went
to Earl's Court to watch the house in Longridge Road. By dint of
careful inquiries in the neighbourhood I was told that Mrs. Tennison
had gone away a few days before--to Paris, they believed.
"The young lady, Miss Tennison, appears to be rather peculiar," I
remarked casually to a woman at a baker's shop near by, after she had
told me that she served them with bread.
"Yes, poor young lady!" replied the woman. "She's never been the same
since she was taken ill last November. They say she sustained some
great shock which so upset her that her mind is now a little affected.
Old Mrs. Alford, the servant there, tells me that the poor girl will
go a whole day and never open her mouth. She's like one dumb!"
"How very curious!" I remarked. "I wonder what kind of shock it was
that caused such a change in her? Was she quite all right before
November?"
"Perfectly. She was a bright clever girl, and used often to come in
here to me for chocolate and cakes. She was full of life and
merriment. It is really pathetic to see her as she is nowadays. She
seems to be brooding over something, but what it is nobody can make
out."
"Very remarkable," I said. "I've noticed her about, and have wondered
at her attitude--like many others, I suppose."
"Yes. Her mother has taken her to a number of mental specialists, I
hear, but nobody seems to be able to do her any good. They say she's
suffered from some shock, but they can't tell exactly what it is,
because the young lady seems to have entirely lost her memory over a
certain period."
"Is Mrs. Tennison well off?" I asked.
"No--the reverse, I should think," the baker's wife replied. "I've
heard that Mr. Tennison was a very rich man, but when he died it was
found that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, and the widow was left
very poorly off."
It is curious what intimate knowledge the little tradespeople glean
about their neighbours, even in London. From the woman I gathered one
or two facts of interest.
I inquired if Mrs. Tennison had many visitors, whereupon she replied
in the negative, and added:
"There used to be an Italian gentleman who called very often a few
weeks ago. He often walked out with the young lady. Somebody said he
was a doctor, but I don't know if he was."
I asked the woman to tell me what he was like, when she gave me an
accurate description of the mysterious doctor of the Via Cavezzo!
So Moroni had visited her there--in Longridge Road!
I tried to ascertain if Gaston Suzor had been there also, but my
informant had no knowledge of him. She had never seen him walking with
Gabrielle Tennison, as she had so often seen the Italian.
I remained for nearly half an hour chatting, retiring, of course, when
she was compelled to serve customers, and then I left her and walked
round to the house in Longridge Road, where I watched a little while,
and then returned to the Carlton.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH
THE ABSOLUTE FACTS
"Monsieur Suzor has not yet returned," was the reply of the smart
reception-clerk when I inquired for the French banker. "But he is
often away for two or three days."
I left the hotel, and taking a taxi to the Euston Road made a thorough
examination of the high shabby house with its smoke-grimed lace
curtains, a place which bore over the fan-light the words "Private
Hotel." In the broad light of day it looked a most dull, uninviting
place; more so even than its neighbours. There are many such hotels in
the vicinity of Euston Station, and this seemed the most wretched of
them all, for the windows had not been cleaned for many months, while
the steps badly wanted scrubbing.
After I had thoroughly examined the place in front, I went round to
the back, where I discovered, to my surprise, that the house had an
exit at the rear through a mews into a drab, dull street which ran
parallel. Then, for the first time, the thought occurred to me that on
the previous day the Frenchman might have entered by the front door
and passed out by the back into the next street!
I waited an hour idling about, and then I went boldly to the door, and
knocked.
A black-haired, slatternly woman in a torn and soiled apron opened the
door slightly.
"We're full up," she snapped before I could speak. "We haven't any
room to let."
"I don't require a room," I replied politely. "I've called to see the
French gentleman you have staying here--Monsieur Suzor."
I thought she started at mention of the name, for she still held the
door ajar as though to prevent me from peering inside.
"We've got no French gent a-staying 'ere," she replied. "You've made a
mistake."
"But I saw him enter here last night."
"You must 'ave been mistaken," the woman said. "'E might 'ave gone
next door. They 'ave a lot of visitors."
"But you are full up--eh?"
"Yes--with our reg'lar residents," she answered promptly. But from her
nervousness of manner I knew she was not telling the truth. I was
positive that Suzor had entered there, but she denied all knowledge of
him. Why?
Without a doubt, while I had waited for him to emerge, he had passed
out by the back way. If so, was it possible that he had seen and
recognized me, and wished to escape unseen?
The house was certainly one of mystery. The woman was palpably
perturbed by my inquiry, and she seemed relieved when I turned away
with feigned disappointment.
"Try next door," she suggested, and disappeared.
As I walked along Euston Road in the direction of Tottenham Court
Road, I fell to wondering whether that frowsy house was one of those
which exist in various quarters of London where thieves and persons
hiding from the police can find sanctuary, and whether Suzor, knowing
that I had seen him, had escaped me by passing through to the back and
thus getting away!
I longed to know the character of the serious conversation he had had
with Gabrielle Tennison. That indeed was my object to discover, hence
that afternoon I still pursued my bold tactics and at about three
o'clock I rang the bell in Longridge Road.
That act, the true consequences of which I never dreamed, eventually
brought upon me a strange and sensational series of complications and
adventures so remarkable that I sometimes think that it is only by a
miracle I am alive to set down the facts in black and white.
The old woman-servant, Mrs. Alford, opened the door, whereupon I said:
"I trust you will excuse me, but as a matter of fact I am desirous of
a few minutes' private conversation with you."
She looked askance at me, and naturally. I was a perfect stranger, and
servants do not care to admit strangers to the house when their
mistress is absent.
"I know that this is Mrs. Tennison's house," I went on, "and also that
you are left in charge of Miss Gabrielle. It is about her that I wish
to consult you. I think I may be able to tell you something of
interest," and I handed her my card.
Mrs. Alford read the name, but at first she seemed rather disinclined
to admit me. Indeed, not until I had further whetted her curiosity by
again telling her that I could give her some interesting information,
did she show me upstairs to the cosy maisonnette on the first floor.
It was a large house which had been divided into two residences, one
the basement and ground floor, and the other the first and second
floors. It was in the latter that Mrs. Tennison lived.
She ushered me into a pretty drawing-room, small, but very tastefully
furnished. In the adjoining room someone was playing a piano; no doubt
it was Gabrielle.
"Well, Mrs. Alford," I began. "I have ventured to call here because I
have learned of Miss Gabrielle's unfortunate mental condition, and
perhaps I may have a key to it."
"What--do you know something, sir?" asked the stout buxom woman, for
the first time impressed by my seriousness. "Do you know anything of
what happened?"
"Perhaps," was my non-committal reply. "But first, I wish you to
respect my confidence. I know you'll do that in the interests of the
poor young lady."
"I'll do anything in her interests, sir," she replied, and invited me
to take a seat, she herself remained standing, as a servant should.
"Well, then, say nothing to your mistress, or to anyone else regarding
my visit. First, I want you to answer one or two questions so as to
either confirm or negative certain suspicions which I hold."
"Suspicions of what?" she asked.
"I will reveal those in due course," I replied. "Now, tell me what
happened to Miss Gabrielle that she should be in her present mental
state?"
"Nobody can tell, sir. She went out one evening in November to go to
her dancing lesson, and was not seen again until six days later, when
she was found on the Portsmouth Road half-way between Liphook and
Petersfield. She had evidently walked a considerable distance and was
on her way towards London, when she collapsed at the roadside. A
carter discovered her, gave warning to the police at Petersfield, and
she was taken to the hospital, where it was found that her memory had
entirely gone. She could not recognize her mother or anyone else."
"On what date did she disappear?" I asked breathlessly.
"On November the seventh."
I held my breath. It was on the day of my startling adventure.
"Would you describe to me the exact circumstances?" I asked eagerly.
"I may be able to throw a very interesting light upon the affair."
The woman hesitated. Perhaps it was but natural.
"Well," she said at last. "My mistress is away. I think you ought to
see her, sir."
"Why, Mrs. Alford? You are the trusted servant of the family, and
surely you know the whole facts?"
"I do," she answered in a low, tense voice. "They are most
remarkable."
"Then tell me all you know, and in return I will try to explain some
matters which are no doubt to you and to Mrs. Tennison a mystery."
"Well, after tea on the day in question, the seventh of November, Miss
Gabrielle went out to go to Addison Road to Mrs. Gill's dancing class.
She was in the best of health and in high spirits because she had that
morning received an invitation to go and stay with her cousin Leonora
at Newmarket on the following Wednesday. As far as we know she had not
a single trouble in the world."
"She had no admirers--eh?"
"Yes, several. But she had no serious flirtations, as far as we can
make out," replied Mrs. Alford. "Her mother had gone to pay a visit,
and when Miss Gabrielle went out she told me that she would be home at
nine o'clock. Though we waited till midnight she did not return. We
remained up all night, and next morning when I went to Mrs. Gill, in
Addison Road, I found that she had left there at half-past six to
return home. We then went to Kensington Police Station, and gave her
description to the police."
"What was their theory?" I asked.
"They thought she had left home of her own accord--that she had a
lover in secret. At least, the inspector hinted at that suggestion."
"Of course her mother was frantic," I remarked. "But had you no
suspicion of any person posing as her friend?"
"None. It was not till six days later--about one o'clock in the day,
when a constable called and told Mrs. Tennison that a young lady
answering the description of her daughter had been found at the
roadside, and had been taken to the cottage hospital at Petersfield.
We both took the next train from Waterloo, and on arrival at the
hospital found the poor girl lying in bed. But so strange was her
manner that she was unable to recognize either of us. All she could
say were the words 'Red, green and gold!' and she shuddered in horror
as though the colours terrified her. These words she constantly
repeated--'red, green and gold!'--'red, green and gold!'"
"What was the doctor's opinion?"
"He was as much puzzled as we were, sir. Apparently my poor young
mistress was found early in the morning lying in the hedge on the main
Portsmouth Road. Her clothes were wet, for it had rained during the
night. Her boots were very muddy, and her clothes in an awful state.
She seemed as if she had wandered about for hours. But all she could
say to us were the words: 'Red, green and gold.'"
"Did not she recognize her mother?" I inquired.
"No, sir. She hasn't recognized her--even now!"
"Doctors have seen her, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, half a dozen of them--including Doctor Moroni, the great
Italian doctor. He took her to Florence for treatment, but it did her
no good--none in the least."
"How did you know Moroni?" I asked quickly.
"I think he became interested in her through one of the doctors to
whom Mrs. Tennison took her."