"I thank you so much for all your kind words, Mr. Urwin. I have at
least to-day found a real friend."
"I hope so," I laughed. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye; I hope you'll soon be about again."
Then the door closed and I was again alone.
I was heartily sorry for her, poor girl. The sudden flight of the old
herbalist was, to say the least suspicious. That he had money and could
pay the debt was certain. Without doubt he had disappeared on account
of a too close attention from the police. Morris Lowry was, I knew, not
very remarkable for paternal affection, therefore I feared that he had,
as Lily suspected, left her at the mercy of the world.
A week later I was able to go down to my office again, and about six
o'clock on the second day I had resumed my duties I accidentally met
Boyd at the bottom of Fleet Street.
As merry as usual, we drank together at the _Bodega_ beneath the railway
arch in Ludgate Hill, but in reply to my eager questions he told me that
absolutely nothing fresh had transpired regarding the curious affair at
Kensington. I explained that I was still a frequent visitor at
Riverdene, but up to the present had discovered nothing. I, of course,
did not tell him all my suspicions, preferring to keep my own counsel
and allow him to prosecute his inquiries after his own method. From his
conversation, however, I saw that he had many other matters in hand, and
from his attitude it seemed as though he had given up hope of obtaining
a clue to the mystery.
On finishing our wine we rose from the barrel on which we had been
sitting, and he having announced his intention to walk along to the
bookstall in Ludgate Hill Station to buy a magazine for his wife--for he
was just off home by motor-bus to Hammersmith--we strolled together
through that short arcade leading to the station, at that hour crowded
by hungry City men eager to get back to their suburban homes.
Into every door they surged, springing up the two staircases to the
platform above as though they had not a further moment to live, while
every few seconds the deep voices of the ticket-collectors cried the
names of the stations from the City to Blackheath or Victoria, or from
Herne Hill down to Dover. Amid this black-coated, silk-hatted,
perspiring crowd a man suddenly brushed past me, rushing up the stairs
two steps at a time, slipping through the barrier just as the door was
slammed, and disappearing on to the platform.
"Hulloa!" cried Boyd, pressing my arm quickly. "See! Look at that
man--the one with the bag, running up the steps. Do you see him?"
"Yes," I answered, myself confounded.
"Well, that's the fellow I saw in St. James's Park, and who got away so
neatly from Ebury Street--you remember?"
"That man!" I gasped, utterly amazed.
"Yes. We mustn't lose sight of him this time. He can tell us something
if he likes," and without further word he dashed away after the man who
had hurried to catch his train, leaving me standing alone in amazement.
That man who had brushed past I had instantly recognised as none other
than Henry Blain, who for so many weeks was supposed to have been in
Paris.
This fresh development was certainly both startling and mysterious.