THYRA MAKES AN ADMISSION
That same afternoon Dick Jervoise had stood for a considerable time
watching at the long window of his sitting-room in that great block of
red-brick flats at Castelnau, on the Barnes side of Hammersmith Bridge.
The view across the wide reservoirs and up the Thames beyond old-world
Chiswick and its Mall was one of the most extensive and picturesque
in the immediate environs of London. His were cosy quarters. He had
chosen them for two reasons; first to be near Owen, whose surgery was
in Bridge Avenue, just over the long suspension bridge, and second
because it was an open spot, with plenty of light and fresh air both
back and front. His rooms were not extensive, but quite sufficient
for the simple wants of a bachelor. The sitting-room was a square,
good-sized apartment papered a dark red, with well-filled book-cases,
a big, old-fashioned sideboard, whereon were two or three pieces of
antique silver, and in a corner a large, roll-top writing-desk with the
telephone instrument upon it.
On the table in the centre stood a big epergne of sweet-smelling
mimosa, bringing with it a fragrance from the Riviera, and before the
bright fire stood two inviting armchairs. That room, as were also the
dining-room and the bedroom, was the very acme of bachelor comfort, for
he had furnished them with considerable taste in order to make cosy
quarters for himself when in London.
One room beyond the kitchen was, indeed, piled with battered
travelling cases and the impedimenta he sometimes used on his longer
expeditions, the articles ranging from a tent to a luggage label.
The titles of the books lining that well-warmed, little den were
sufficient index to the character of its owner. They were mostly works
on archæology or folk-lore, and many of them, being extremely rare, he
had purchased at high prices.
Standing at the long French window which opened upon a narrow balcony,
where a row of variegated laurels flourished in long boxes, he stood
eagerly watching every vehicle as it crossed the bridge from the
Hammersmith side.
His face was pale and serious, and it was apparent that his nerves were
at their highest tension.
Time after time he glanced back anxiously at the Chippendale clock upon
the mantelshelf, and then stood breathlessly waiting.
The roadway below was one of the chief highways out of the metropolis,
and led to Wimbledon, Richmond, Kingston-on-Thames, and the open
country beyond. Hence, as he watched, hundreds of motor cars and motor
’buses whirred along over the bridge, and away along the broad road
towards Barnes Common and Mortlake.
Slowly the light faded. Already the lamps on the great bridge had
begun to glimmer, and lights were shining on the river bank across at
Chiswick.
Suddenly a taxicab slowed up after it had crossed the bridge, and came
quietly towards the kerb. Dick caught sight of a face within, and next
instant dashed down the stairs.
In the entrance he grasped the hand of the visitor he had been so
anxiously awaiting.
It was Thyra.
Together they ascended to the second floor, and he ushered her into his
sitting-room. She entered the flat timidly, for was not her visit a
clandestine one!
Within, he helped her off with her fur coat and boa, and pulled one of
the big armchairs before the fire, saying:
“I began to fear that you could not get away, or that you didn’t
receive my message.”
“I was compelled to wait until my father went out. He had an
appointment with somebody.”
“With whom?”
“He did not tell me. As soon as he had gone I slipped out, hailed a
cab, and gave the driver your address. But oh! how utterly bewildering
is your great London! I have driven miles and miles. I had no idea that
London was so huge.”
He smiled at her as, standing with his back to the fire, he gazed upon
her, noting how extremely handsome she was. Her neat mourning enhanced
her pale beauty, yet as she raised her great grey eyes to his, he saw
them shadowed, and full of weariness.
He had not seen her since that grey afternoon when, four days after the
tragedy, he had called upon her in Christiania to wish her adieu. They
had written to each other several times until she had announced her
impending arrival in London, and he had sent her that urgent message to
come and see him.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he stammered, after a painful pause.
“And I, too, have been longing to see you, Mr. Jervoise,” she said.
“There were things I wished to speak about which I dare not write in
letters.” And instinctively she glanced at the closed door.
“You need have no fear,” he assured her. “My man is out, and we are
entirely alone.”
She glanced round the room with her great wide-open eyes, so full of
childish innocence. Everything English was so new to her, everything
interested or astonished her. She had regarded Christiania, with real
trees in its streets, as a terrestrial paradise, but London, with its
great parks, miles of streets, and bustling millions, was assuredly a
universe in itself.
“Nobody must know that we have met,” she said in an anxious tone.
“Remember our secret!”
“Your secret is entirely safe with me, Thyra—if I may be permitted to
call you by your Christian name,” he answered in a deep, earnest voice.
“I know it is! I feel I can trust in you, Mr. Jervoise. You are indeed
my friend.”
“Yes. I am your friend,” he repeated, looking straight into those eyes,
so wonderfully clear and yet wearing that strange, hunted look that he
had never before seen in them.
“Nobody suspects?” she asked the next moment in a hoarse whisper,
bending forward in her chair towards him.
“Nobody. Our secret is quite safe.”
She stirred, and rearranged her skirts, his words having reassured her.
London! When, three days ago, she had landed at Tilbury with her
father from Gothenburg, she had been filled with childish joy at the
mere thought that London was near. London! The long-dreamed-of city
of wonders, the world’s metropolis, the home of all splendours, all
delights—London, the home of Richard Jervoise.
She had, however, dreaded that meeting. She knew that to see him
again was imperative, yet she anticipated the encounter with fear and
misgiving—nay, with something akin to horror. Nevertheless, on receipt
of his dreaded demand, she had braced herself up, and now faced the
ordeal unflinchingly.
As Dick Jervoise stood still looking into those splendid eyes, he read
what was passing in her mind.
“Thyra!” he said slowly, in a very low, impressive voice. “You are
apprehensive—far too apprehensive. You are unnerved, I fear. Pray calm
yourself, or your very attitude may excite suspicion.”
“Ah!” she cried, putting her gloved hands out before her. “How can I
act otherwise? How can I remain calm with this terrible torture of
conscience upon my mind?”
And she rose from her chair, tall and willowy, and stood before him,
her fair head bowed.
“Come,” he said, placing his hand upon her slim shoulder tenderly, “you
must learn to conceal all these fears of yours if you would hide our
secret from the world.”
“But somehow—well, somehow I cannot!” she declared wildly, her face now
pale and drawn. “Heaven knows what a struggle I constantly have with my
own heart—my own conscience!”
“No, no!” he said, firmly yet gently. “Dismiss all that from your
mind. Nobody is aware of our meeting in Christiania on that fateful
afternoon, and——”
“Ah! If I had only had the courage to refuse to keep that appointment
with you! It was not right—it was unjust—unjust to Paul.”
“No,” he said quite frankly. “What I did was entirely in your
interests, Thyra. You have already admitted that. Our secret is
safe—therefore why need we trouble further?”
“I had no proof of what you told me,” she protested quickly. “It was
a remarkable story, but you could not bring the slightest evidence to
substantiate a single word of it.”
“You will have ample proof in due course,” he said. “I promise you
that.”
“Somehow you never seem to realise our mutual danger,” she exclaimed.
“I am a woman, and perhaps I can see further ahead than you. Has it
never struck you that your friend Dr. Odd may have suspected our secret
meeting on that afternoon?”
“And, pray, what if he does? The suspicion cannot be substantiated. I
have already taken very good care of that. The police are still making
inquiries,” he added with a grim smile. “They arrested some poor devil
of a waiter the other day, I hear, and had to release him after a few
hours’ detention.”
“You laugh!” she cried, her eyes flashing in quick protest. “_You!_”
“I laugh because you and I know he is innocent,” was his brief yet
indefinite answer. “But,” he added, “tell me one thing, Thyra. Did
Paul ever mention to you the name of a friend of his called Nicholas
Bourtzeff?”
“Bourtzeff? No. I never heard him mention the name,” she responded,
shaking her head.
“And he never mentioned any friend of his living in London—at that
address in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, which he telegraphed to your
father?”
“Never. I had not the slightest idea of his intention of coming to
London, or that he possessed any friend here.”
Dick Jervoise smiled within himself when he recollected Alza’s dogged
tenaciousness to the clue which she believed she had discovered. When
the fire of vengeance once burns in a woman’s heart, it is indeed
unquenchable.
It had grown quite dark now, and the room was only illuminated by the
uncertain flicker of the fire.
“Are you positive that your friend, the doctor, is still unsuspicious?”
she asked him in a low, strained voice at last.
“Of course. Whatever causes you such ridiculous apprehension?”
“Because—well, because I am not convinced yet that our secret is
absolutely safe,” was her reply. “Suppose the truth were ever
discovered, the truth of what occurred that evening? Where should we
both be? You remember your words!”
The man standing with her against the mantelshelf bit his lips, but he
remained silent.
The shadow of a guilty secret was upon his brow.
He held his breath, and the hand that sought hers trembled.