I glanced behind me, but saw no sign of Boyd. Of a sudden it crossed my
mind that he had not been present at our first discovery; therefore,
expecting a man to keep the appointment, he had allowed her to pass the
spot unnoticed.
The appearance of that neat figure before me, the figure of the woman
over whose beauty I had mourned as dead, was in itself a most startling
fact, adding still another feature to the already dark and inscrutable
mystery. I wanted to have a word with Boyd and ask his advice, for I
knew not how to act in such unexpected circumstances. One of the
victims was actually keeping an appointment with an accomplice of the
assassin, for there seemed no doubt that murder had been committed by
some secret means.
When she passed me I noticed the queer, half-suspicious glance she cast
at me with those large blue eyes of hers, a glance in which anxiety was
mingled with terror and despair. Evidently she had sought some one whom
she had not been able to find, and was disappointed in consequence.
With the silhouette of her figure before me like some phantom which I
was endeavouring to chase in vain, I strolled on at a respectable
distance, endeavouring to look unconcerned. I saw what a strikingly
smart figure hers was; how slim the waist, how wide and well-rounded the
hips, and how through the bodice of her dress was shown the outline of
those narrow French corsets, mere bands for the waist which only women
with superb figures ever dare to wear. Her skirt of fine black cloth
hung in folds unusually graceful, for London skirts are always more or
less "bunchy," dragging behind and rising in front, unless made by the
first-class houses in Regent Street or Bond Street. London dressmakers
cannot cut a skirt well. But her gown was a model of simplicity and
good fit, evidently the "creation" of some expensive ladies' tailor.
Her hair, in the full light of day, was not golden brown as I had
believed it to be, but really auburn, and her black hat suited her
admirably. From moment to moment I feared lest she should glance back
and discover me following her, but fortunately she kept straight on at
the same even pace, passing out of the park by Storey's Gate, and
continuing along Great George Street until she entered the bustle of
Parliament Street. Here, fearing she might escape me, I was compelled
to approach nearer, at risk of being discovered, and even then was still
utterly undecided how to act. My first impulse was, to walk up to her,
introduce myself and tell her of the circumstances in which I had
discovered her in that house, apparently lifeless. On reflection,
however, I judged that by her presence in the park she was acquainted
with the assassin or his associate, and that by keeping close watch upon
her I might discover more than by at once exposing my hand. There
seemed in her very appearance, in that deep mourning, something grim,
weird, mysterious.
At the corner of Parliament Street, outside the steamy tea-rooms, she
stood for a few moments gazing anxiously up and down, as if in search of
an omnibus. A man approached her, crying the second edition of the
_Comet_, a copy of which she purchased eagerly, folding it small and
placing it within the folds of her sunshade.
Why had she done that? I wondered. Did she expect to find in that
paper an exposure of the secret tragedy of the previous night?
I stood reading some excursion time-tables outside the railway
booking-office on the opposite corner, watching her furtively. From her
manner I could plainly see how nervous and excited she was.
After some hesitation she turned and walked along to King Street, where
she entered the telegraph office and dispatched a telegram. She
evidently knew that part of London, or she would not have known the
whereabouts of that office hidden down the short side street. I waited
in Parliament Street until her return, and unnoticed strode back behind
her to the corner of Bridge Street, where she at length entered a taxi
and drove off.
From the telegram I might, I thought, obtain some clue, but, alas!
telegrams are secret, and I should be unable to get a glance at it. To
apply at the office would be useless. The police might perhaps obtain
permission to read it, but so many dispatches are daily handed in there
that to trace any particular one is always a difficult matter.
I was divided in my impulses. Should I go back to King Street and make
instant application regarding the telegram, so that it might be marked
and easily traced afterwards, or should I follow the taxi which at that
moment was crossing Westminster Bridge?
I decided upon the latter course, and jumping into another motor,
pointed out the taxi I desired to follow.
Our drive was not a long one--only to Waterloo Station, the busy
platform of the loop line. Here I could easily conceal myself in the
crowd of persons every moment arriving and departing, and as I stood
near the booking-office, I heard her ask for a first-class ticket to
Fulwell, a rather pleasant and comparatively new suburban district
between Twickenham and Hampton.
The Shepperton train was already in the station, therefore she at once
took her seat, while I entered another compartment in the front of the
train. I did this in order to be able to alight quickly, leave the
station before her, and thus avoid recognition. The journey occupied
about three-quarters of a hour, but at length we drew into the little
rural station situated in a deep cutting, and ere the train stopped I
sprang out, passed the barrier and leaped up the steps, escaping ere the
gate was closed by the ticket inspector. By this quick movement I
gained several minutes upon her, for the barrier was closed, and
alighting passengers were not allowed to leave before the train had
again moved off.
The high road from London opened right and left, one way leading back to
Strawberry Hill, the other out to New Hampton. I felt certain that she
would walk in the direction of the latter place, therefore I started off
briskly until I came to a small wayside inn, which I entered, and going
to the window of the bar-parlour called for refreshment, at the same
time keeping a keen look-out for her passing.
Several persons who had come by train hurried by, and at first I
believed she had taken the opposite direction. But at last she came,
holding her skirts daintily and picking her way, for it had been raining
and the path was muddy. She, however, was not alone.
By her side walked a young rather handsome man about twenty-five, who
wore tennis flannels, and who had apparently met her at the station.
She was laughing merrily as she passed, while he strode on with a light,
airy footstep indicative of happiness.
"There's a lady just gone past," I exclaimed quickly, turning to the
innkeeper's wife, who had just brought in my glass of beer. "I often
see her about. Do you know who she is?"
With woman's curiosity she went to the door and looked out after her.
"Oh, that's Lady Glaslyn's daughter," she said.
"Lady Glaslyn's daughter!" I echoed in surprise.
"Yes, it's Miss Eva, and the young gent with her is Fred Langdale, the
son of the great sugar-refiner up in London. They both live here, close
by. Lady Glaslyn, a widow, is not at all well off, and lives along at
The Hollies, the big white house with a garden in front on this side of
the way, while the Langdales have a house further on the road to
Hampton, overlooking Bushey Park."
"Oh, that's who they are!" I said quite unconcernedly, but secretly
delighted with this information. "And who is this Lady Glaslyn? Has
she lived here long?"
"Nearly a year now," the good woman answered. Then, confidentially, she
added, "They are come-down swells, I fancy. That they've got no money
is very evident, for the tradespeople can't get their bills paid at all.
Why, only last week, Jim Horton, the gas company's man, was in here,
and I heard him tell his labourers that he'd got orders to cut the gas
off at The Hollies because the bill wasn't paid."
"Then they must be pretty hard up," I observed. "Many aristocratic
families come down in the world."
The name of Glaslyn puzzled me. It sounded familiar.
"Who was her ladyship's husband? Do you know?"
"No, sir. I've heard several stories. One was how that he was a
baronet who led an exploring party somewhere in South America, and died
of fever, and another that he was a shady individual who was connected
with companies in the City. But nobody here knows the truth, I think."
A glance at Debrett or Burke when I returned to my office would quickly
settle that point, I reflected; therefore, having obtained all the
information I could from her I wished her good-day, and left.
Along the Hampton Road I strolled in the direction the pair had taken,
and in the distance saw the mysterious Eva take leave of her companion
and enter a house, while he lifted his hat and walked on. I proceeded
slowly, passing The Hollies on the opposite side of the way. It was a
rather large place, decidedly old-fashioned, standing back in its own
grounds and approached by a carriage drive, a three-storied redbrick
house with those plain windows surrounded by white wooden beams of the
early Georgian era. In the old-world garden, hidden by a high wall,
grew a profusion of roses and wallflowers which diffused a sweet scent
as I passed, and half the house seemed hidden by ivy and creepers. The
small lawn in front, with its laurels and monkey-trees, were well kept,
and the place seemed spick and span, and altogether comfortable.
As I passed I fancied I saw a black-robed figure standing at one of the
ground-floor windows. What if she recognised me? I dared not to look
around again, but kept on my way, walking through New Hampton, past the
long wall of Bushey Park, until I came to Old Hampton town, whence, half
an hour later, I took train back to Waterloo.
I had, at any rate, made one discovery, which was in itself absolutely
bewildering. At first I had doubted that this sweet-faced, clear-eyed
woman was actually identical with the dead form that lay back in her
chair on the previous night. I believe that she only bore some striking
resemblance, heightened, perhaps, by the agitated state of my mind. But
all doubts on this point had been set at rest by one fact. The woman
whose cold hand I had grasped had worn in her bodice a brooch of unusual
pattern--a tiny enamelled playing-card, a five of diamonds quaintly set
in gold--and this same ornament, striking on account of its originality
of design, was at the throat of Eva Glaslyn, showing plainly against the
dead black of her dress.
The mystery was certainly most remarkable. In wonder how Boyd had
fared, or whether Patterson had been prosecuting inquiries in other
directions, I went straight to Kensington from Waterloo, and found the
inspector in his room over the police-station. It was a small apartment
with drab-painted walls, plainly furnished as police-stations are. The
table whereat he sat was littered with papers, mostly pale straw-colour,
and on the mantelshelf stood an interesting collection of photographs of
people "wanted," each bearing a number in red ink corresponding to the
index book, wherein a short account of their crime was recorded.
"Why," he cried, as I entered, "wherever have you been? I've been
hunting high and low for you."
"I've been down to Hampton," I laughed.
"To Hampton!" he echoed. "What on earth have you been doing down
there?"
"Making inquiries," I answered, affecting an air of unconcern. "I've
made a rather queer discovery."
"What is it?" he asked, as I took a seat before him.
"I've found the woman whom Patterson and I discovered dead last night,
and the strangest part about it is that she's alive and quite well."
"My dear fellow, are you mad?" he asked, looking at me strangely.
"People aren't in the habit of coming to life again, you know."
"I'm well aware of that," I responded. "Nevertheless, the fact remains
that the woman seen by Patterson and by myself is actually alive. I met
her in the park, and followed her home to New Hampton."
"Met her in the park!" he cried. "There was one woman I noticed,
fair-haired, and dressed in black."
"The same," I answered. "Fortunately I recognised her and kept her
under observation."
Then, in response to his demand, I related to him the whole circumstance
in detail.
"And her name?" he inquired, when I had concluded.
"Eva Glaslyn, daughter of Lady Glaslyn."
"Glaslyn!" he ejaculated. "Good heavens! Surely it can't be the same!"
"Why the same?" I inquired.
"Oh, nothing!" he answered evasively, quickly seeking to allay my
suspicions. "There was some mystery, or scandal, or something connected
with that family once, if I recollect aright. I may, however, be
mistaken in the name. At any rate, Mr. Urwin, you've acted with tact
and discretion, and discovered a most important fact."
"What have you been doing?" I asked.
"Well," he answered in hesitation, "the fact is, I've had a somewhat
exciting experience."
"Did you, then, discover the man?" I inquired anxiously.
"I met a man, but whether he was the one who made the appointment by
telephone I don't yet know," he said. "I waited until a quarter to one,
concealed behind some bushes, and presently saw a grey-haired old
gentleman, well-dressed in frock coat, and silk hat, strolling in my
direction. He was quite a dandy with well-pressed trousers, varnished
boots, gold-headed cane and single eyeglass. His air was that of a
lawyer or doctor. As if in search of some one he lingered in the
vicinity, subsequently sitting upon a seat at the very end of the lake,
the exact spot which had been indicated."
"And what did you do?"
"I waited and watched. There was no one near, yet from his sharp
glances in all directions I saw that he was in fear lest some one might
approach whom he didn't wish to see. He appeared violently agitated,
and at last, when he was entirely alone, he placed his hand into his
inner pocket, took out something, and rising from the seat with a swift
movement cast the object far away into the water."
"Something he wanted to get rid of. Suspicious, wasn't it?"
"Of course," said the detective. "After that you may rest assured that
I didn't lose sight of him. When the object he had thrown away had
fallen into the lake he turned, and after glancing up and down in fear
that his action might have been observed, he returned to his seat, and
waited until Big Ben struck again. Then he rose and left the park,
strolling airily along the Buckingham Palace Road, peering a good deal
under the bonnets of the pretty women who were looking in the windows of
the shops. He entered the bar of Victoria Station, drank a
whisky-and-soda, and then continuing along to Ebury Street passed twice
or three times up and down in front of a house on the left-hand side.
There were a number of people in that street at the time, but the
instant he thought himself unobserved, he dived down the area of the
house he kept passing and repassing. In a moment I noted that the
number was twenty-two, and having done so placed a watch upon the house,
well satisfied that I had taken the first step towards unravelling the
mystery."
"Remarkable," I said, "I wonder what it was he threw away?"
"That's impossible to tell without dragging the lake, and to do that at
present would excite suspicion. He evidently went there in order to
meet the assassin, but as the latter did not keep the appointment, this
unknown object, which might prove convicting if found upon him, he
resolved to get rid of, and no better place could there be than at the
bottom of the lake. There's lots of pieces of evidence there, you bet."
"Then there must be some mysterious connexion between the appearance of
Eva Glaslyn at that spot and this man who got rid of some evidence of
the crime," I observed.
"Most certainly," the detective said. "It almost seems as though she
came there for the purpose of meeting him, but he being late she grew
impatient and left before his arrival. At every step we take the enigma
becomes more complicated, more extraordinary, more bewildering."