The startling statement of Morris Lowry caused me very considerable
uneasiness. On my return to Grey's Inn, however, I made no mention of
our strange conversation to Dick, who returned that evening rather late
after a heavy day of news-hunting. Old Lowry had evidently been in a
confidential mood that afternoon, and I had no right to expose any
secret of his extraordinary business. Therefore I kept my own counsel,
pondering deeply over his statement when Cleugh had gone forth to meet
Lily, wondering whether it might have been some other woman who had worn
the brooch with the five of diamonds.
I sat at the window gloomily watching the light fade from the leaden
London sky. The evening was stifling, for no fresh air penetrated to
that small open space, surrounded as it was by miles and miles of
smoke-blackened streets, and as night crept on the heavens became a dull
red with the reflection of the myriad lights of the city.
Heedless of all, I strove to find some solution of the enigma.
Inquiries made by Boyd, one of the shrewdest detectives in London, had
failed utterly. He was now relying solely upon me. There was but one
clue, that given by the landlord of the house, and this I had followed
with the result that the circumstances had only grown more and more
bewildering. As far as could be discerned there was no motive whatever
in taking the lives of either the man or the woman, while the escape of
Eva was an astounding fact of which I longed for an explanation from her
own lips.
I loved her. Yes, the more I reflected as I sat there gazing aimlessly
across the square, regardless of the fleeting time, the more I became
convinced that she was all the world to me. I recollected her
daintiness and her grace, the sweetness of her smile and the music of
her voice, telling myself that she alone was my idol, that my love for
Mary had after all been a mere boyish fancy, and that this affection was
a true, honest, deep-rooted one, the outcome of a great and boundless
love.
Was there, however, not a great and terrible suspicion upon her? By a
mere chance, that chance which Fate sends so often to thwart the
murderer's plans or give him up to justice, I had learnt that she--or
some one answering exactly to her description--had actually purchased
some poisonous compound. I had believed her to have been a victim on
that fatal night, but now it seemed that, on the other hand, she was
herself given to the study of poisons; a strange subject, indeed, for a
woman to take up. Then calmly I asked myself if it were possible to
cast all memory of her aside, and after reflection discovered that such
a course was utterly unfeasible. To entertain no further thought of her
was entirely out of all question, for I loved her with a fierce and
intense affection, and thought of nought else but her strange connexion
with this mystery which, if made public, would send a thrill through
London.
There were some very ugly facts hidden somewhere, yet try how I would I
could form no distinct straightforward theory. Eva was naive and
sincere, frank and open, undesigning and entirely inartificial,
nevertheless beneath her candour she seemed to be concealing some dread
secret.
The latter I was determined to discover, and while night drew on and
shadowy figures crossed and recrossed the square, I still sat plunged in
thought, pondering deeply to find some means whereby to approach her.
I love her--a woman upon whom the gravest suspicion rested of having
purchased a deadly drug for some nefarious purpose. Truly in the fitful
fever of life the decree of Fate is oft-times strange. Men have loved
murderesses, and women have, before now, given their hearts, nay, even
their lives, to shield cowards and assassins.
Suddenly a movement behind me brought me back to a sense of my
surroundings, and I saw that Dick had returned.
"Why, you're back very early," I said. "Have you been down to the
Crystal Palace?"
"Yes, of course," he answered gaily. "What have you been doing, you
lazy beggar? It's past half-past eleven."
"Nothing," I answered, surprised that it was so late. "I tried to
write, but it's too beastly hot to work."
"Quite fresh down at the Palace," he answered. "Big crowd on the
Terrace, and the fireworks not at all bad."
"Lil all right?"
"Yes. Sends her regards, and all that sort of thing. But--" and he
hesitated, at the same time tossing his hat across upon a chair, and
seating himself on the edge of the table in that careless,
devil-may-care style habitual to him.
"But what?" I inquired.
He sighed, and a grave expression crossed his face.
"Fact is, old chap," he said in an unusually earnest tone, "I fear I'm
getting a bit tired of her. She wasn't the least bit interesting
to-night."
"Sorry to hear that, old man," I said. "Perhaps she wasn't very well--
or you may be out of sorts--liver, or something. A woman isn't always
in the same mood, you know, just as a man is liable to attacks of
blues."
"Yes, yes, I know all that," he exclaimed impatiently. "But I've been
thinking over it a long time, and, to tell the truth, I'm no longer in
love with her. It's no good making a fool of the girl any longer."
"But she loves you," I observed, knowing well in what affection she held
my erratic friend.
"That's the devil of it!" he snapped. "To tell the truth, it has
worried me a lot lately."
"You've neglected her very much," I observed, "but surely she's
good-looking, a charming companion, and has a very even temper. You've
told me so lots of times. Why have you so suddenly grown tired?"
"I really don't know," he answered, smiling, at the same time slowly
filling his pipe. "Perhaps it's my nature. I was always a wanderer,
you know."