TRACES
Alfred did not become unconscious, nor even feel faint: he was a man.
But he did feel profoundly wretched. He tried to shake off this
feeling, but failed. Later, on his way back through the City, he
stopped somewhere to try and lunch it off, and with rather better
success. He was a man: he proceeded to throw the blame upon the woman.
It was Gladys who had supplied all the sentiment (and there had been
an absurd amount of it) at their parting; it was the woman who had
exaggerated this paltry week's separation, until it had assumed,
perhaps for them both--at the moment--abnormal dimensions; he, the
man, was blameless. If _his_ way had obtained, she should have gone
away in highest spirits, instead of in tears--and all for one
insignificant week! He should write her a serious, if not a severe,
letter on the subject. So Alfred went down to Twickenham in quite a
valiant mood to face his week of single-blessedness, and to affect a
droll appreciation of it in the popular, sprightly manner of the
long-married man.
But the miserable feeling returned--if, indeed, it had ever been chased
fairly away; and it returned with such force that Alfred was obliged to
own at last that it, too, was exaggerated and out of all proportion to
the exciting cause. He, in his turn, was sentimentalising as though
Gladys had gone for a term of years. He was conscious of this; but he
could not help it. His thoughts seemed bound to the parting of this
Saturday, powerless to fly forward to the reunion of the next. A vague,
dim sense of finality was the restraining bond; but this sense was not
long to remain dim or vague. Meanwhile, so far as Alfred was concerned,
the Sunday that followed was wrapped in a gloom that not even the
genial presence of the distinguished (but jocular) guest could in any
way pierce or dissipate. Nevertheless, it contained the last tranquil
moments that Alfred was to know at that period of his life; for it led
him to the verge of an ordeal such as few men are called upon to
undergo.
He was not a little surprised on the Monday morning to find among the
letters by the first post one addressed to his wife. She had received
scarcely any letters since her arrival in England--two or three from
tradesmen, an invitation or so, nothing from Australia; but this
letter was directed in a large, bold hand, with which Alfred fancied
he was not wholly unfamiliar; and he suddenly remembered that he had
seen it before in Miss Barrington's note of invitation. Now, the
post-mark bore the name of the town to which Gladys had booked from
Liverpool Street, and the date of the day before; and how could Miss
Barrington write to Gladys at Twickenham, when Gladys was staying with
Miss Barrington in Suffolk?
He tore open the envelope, and his hand shook as he did so. When he
had read to the end of the letter, which was very short, his face was
gray and ghastly; his eyes were wild and staring; he sank helplessly
into a chair. The note ran thus:--
'Dearest Glad,--We are _so_ disappointed, you can't think. As
for me, I've been in the sulks ever since your telegram came
this afternoon. What _ever can_ have prevented your coming,
at the _very last minute_--for your wire from _Liverpool
Street_? Do write at once, for I'm _horribly_ anxious, to
your loving
'Ada.
'PS.--And do _come_ at once, if it's nothing serious.
'Saturday.'
Alfred read the letter a second time, and an extraordinary composure
came over him.
He folded the letter, restored it to its envelope, and put the
envelope in his pocket. Then he looked at the clock. It wanted a
quarter to eight. The Judge was no doubt up and about somewhere; but
none of the others were down. Alfred rang the bell, and left word that
he had received a letter begging an early interview on important
business, and that he would breakfast in town.
Alfred was stunned; but he had formed a plan. This plan he proceeded
to put into effect; or rather, once formed, the plan evolved itself
into mechanical action without further thought. For some hours
following he did not perfectly realise either what he was doing or why
he was doing it. He never thoroughly pulled himself together, until a
country conveyance, rattling him through country lanes, whisked into a
wooded drive, and presently past a lawn where people were playing
lawn-tennis, and so to the steps of a square, solid, country house.
But he had all his wits about him, and those sharpened to the finest
possible point, when he looked to see whether Gladys was, or was not,
among the girls on the lawn. She was not. That was settled. He got
out and rang the bell. He inquired for Mr Barrington; Mr Barrington
was playing at lawn-tennis. In answer to a question from the butler,
Bligh said that he would rather see Mr Barrington in the house than go
to him on the tennis-court. He could wait until the set was finished.
He had come from London expressly to speak for a few minutes with Mr
Barrington. His name would keep until Mr Barrington came; but he was
from Australia.
The last piece of information was calculated to fetch Mr Barrington at
once; and it did. He came as he was, in his flannels, his thick hairy
arms bare to the elbow: a bronzed, leonine man of fifty, with the
hearty, hospitable manner of the Colonial 'squatocracy.' Alfred
explained in a few words who he was, and why he had come. He had but one
or two questions to ask, and he asked them with perfect self-possession.
They elicited the assurance that nothing had been heard of Gladys in
that quarter, beyond the brief message received on the Saturday. Mr
Barrington found the telegram, and handed it to his visitor. It read:
'Prevented coming at last moment. Am writing--Gladys.' By the time of
despatch, Bligh knew that it was the message she had written out in his
presence.
'Of course she never wrote?' he said coolly to the squatter.
'We have received nothing,' was the grave answer.
'Yet she started,' said Alfred. 'I put her in the train myself, and
saw her off.'
His composure was incredible. The Australian was more shaken than he.
'Did you make any inquiries on the line?' asked Barrington, after a
pause.
'Inquiries about what?'
'There might have been--an accident.'
Bligh tapped the telegram with his finger. 'This points to no
accident,' he said, grimly. 'But,' he added, more thoughtfully, 'one
might make inquiries down the line, as you say. It might do good to
make inquiries all along the line.'
'Do you mean to say you have made _none_?'
'None,' said Alfred, fetching a deep sigh. 'I came here straight. I
could think of nothing else but getting here--and--perhaps--finding
her! I thought--I thought there might be some--mistake!' His voice
suddenly broke. The futility of the hope that had sustained him for
hours had dawned upon him slowly, but now the cruel light hid nothing
any longer. She was not here; she had not been heard of here; and
precious hours had been lost. He grasped his hat and held out his
trembling hand.
'Thank you! Thank you, Mr Barrington! Now I must be off.'
'Where to?'
'To Scotland Yard. I should have gone there first. But--I was mad, I
think; I thought there had been some mistake. Only some mistake!'
The squatter was touched to the soul. 'I have known her, off and on,
since she was a baby,' he said. 'Bligh--if you would only let me, I
should like to come with you.'
Alfred wrung the other's hand, but refused his offer.
'No. Though I am grateful indeed, I would rather go alone. It would
do no good, your coming; I should prefer to be alone. So only one word
more. Your daughter was a great friend of Gladys; better not tell her
anything of this. For it may still be only some wild freak, Mr
Barrington--God knows what it is!'
It was evening when he reached London. A whole day had been wasted. He
stated his case to the police; and then there was no more to be done
that night. With an eagerness that all at once became feverish he
hastened back to Twickenham. It was late when he arrived at the house;
only Granville was up; and, for an instant, Granville thought his
brother had been drinking. The delusion lasted no longer than that
instant. It was not drink with Alfred: his excitement was suppressed:
he stood staring at Granville with a questioning, eager expression, as
though he expected news. What could it mean? What could be the
explanation of such fierce excitement in stolid Alfred, of all people
in the world?
Granville thought of the one thing, or rather of the one person,
likely, and threw out a feeler:--
'Have you heard from Gladys?'
'No,' said Alfred, in a hollow voice. '_Have you seen her?_'
This was the last idea that had possessed him: that Gladys might have
come home, that he might find her there on his return. It was the
second time that day that he had cheated himself with vain,
unreasoning hopes.
'Seen her?' Granville screwed in his eyeglass tighter. 'Of course I
haven't seen her! How should we see her here, my good fellow, when
she's down in Suffolk?'
Alfred turned pale, and for an instant stood glaring; then he burst
into a harsh laugh.
'You know how odd she is, Gran! I thought she might have tired of her
friends and come back. She's capable of it, and I feared it--that's
all!'
He left the room abruptly.
'Poor chap!' said Granville, with a sentient shake of the head; 'he
_is_ far gone, if you like.'
* * * * *
Next morning Alfred walked into Scotland Yard as the clocks were
striking eleven. His appointment was for that hour, and he had striven
successfully to keep it to the second; though commonly he was a far
from punctual man. In point of fact, he had been sitting and loitering
about the Embankment for a whole hour, waiting until the moment of his
appointment should come, as unwilling to go to it a minute before the
time as a minute late. So he entered the Yard while Big Ben was
striking. And this was a young man with a reputation for
unpunctuality, and all-round unbusinesslike, dilatory habits.
Moreover, for a man who, as a rule, was not fastidious enough about
such matters, his appearance this morning was wellnigh immaculate.
Yet, perhaps, he had only sought, by a long and elaborate toilet, to
while away the long, light hours of the early morning: for, on looking
at him closely, it was impossible to believe that he had slept a
wink. The fact is, abnormal circumstances had conduced to bring about
in Alfred an entirely abnormal state of mind. In a word, and a trite
one, he was no longer himself. A crust of insensibility had hardened
upon him. Had there been no news for him at all at the Yard this
morning, possibly this crust might have been broken through: for he
was better prepared for one crushing blow than for the bruises of
repeated disappointment. Thus, the very worst news might have affected
him less, at the moment, than no news, which is supposed, popularly,
to be of the best. But there was some news.
Official investigation had thus far discovered what a person of
average intelligence, with a little more presence of mind than Alfred
had shown, might have ascertained, perhaps for himself. Yet the
information was important. Gladys had left the train, with her
luggage, two stations before her destination. This was testified by
the guard of the train. But there was a later fact still. It was
certain that Gladys had returned to town by the next up-train: for she
had personally deposited her luggage in the cloak-room at Liverpool
Street between the hours of six and seven on the Saturday evening.
There all trace of her was lost, for the present; but it was extremely
likely that fresh traces would be forthcoming during the course of the
day.
The simple nature of the inquiries that had elicited the above
information will be at once apparent; but Alfred went away with an
exalted opinion of the blood-hound sagacity of the police. In his
present condition of mind, his opinion, good or bad, was not worth
much. He went to a club which he had not been in for years, and of
which he had long ceased to look upon himself as a member; but his
bankers, doubtless, still paid his subscription; and in any case it
was not likely that he would be turned out. He would find some quiet
corner and sit down and wait until the messenger came from Scotland
Yard; for, of course, something more would be discovered during the
course of the day--had they not promised as much? The quiet corner
that he chose was an upstairs window, from which there was a fair
glimpse of the river. The river fascinated him most strangely to-day.
During the hour he had loitered on the Embankment, between ten and
eleven, he had raised his eyes but seldom from the river.
He sat long at the window--so long that minutes ran into hours and the
summer afternoon melted into the summer evening. The room was a
reading-room; the windows were in snug recesses. Alfred had his recess
to himself for hours and hours. He was conscious of no other presence;
certainly no one spoke to him: very possibly, with his beard, no one
recognised him.
The sun was sinking. He could not see it from this window; but he
could see the heightened contrast of light and shadow among the
ripples of the river, and the shadows deepening far away under
Westminster Bridge. This was where his gaze rested. It was a stony
gaze; his lips were compressed and bloodless, his features pointed and
pale. A hideous vision filled his mind; but it was a vision only; it
had no meaning. He did not realise it. He realised nothing.... Some
one came and asked if he was Mr Bligh. It was a club servant. A man
awaited him below. Alfred went down; the messenger from Scotland Yard
was come at last.
The messenger was the bearer of these few words:--
'A lady's hat and jacket have been found in the river below Blackwall.
If you wish to see them, they are here.'
Five minutes later Alfred walked into the office in which he had heard
the result of the investigations that morning, and identified
instantly the jacket and hat awaiting his inspection.
Gladys had gone away in them on Saturday.