Without a second's hesitation I rushed up the steps after Boyd, but on
gaining the platform found that a train had just gone out, and was at
that moment disappearing across the bridge over the Thames. The
detective, known to the ticket-collector as a police-officer, had been
allowed to pass the barrier, and had evidently caught the same train as
Blain.
There was certainly an element of deepest mystery in the fact that the
unknown man who had kept the appointment in St. James's Park, and had
afterwards taken such elaborate precautions against being followed,
should be revealed to be none other than the once purse-proud proprietor
of Shenley. Quite apparent it was, too, that the object of Eva's visit
to the park was to meet him clandestinely, for what reason was a
profound enigma. The more I revolved the strange events within my mind,
the more absolutely bewildering they become.
True, I had made certain discoveries--discoveries which, rather than
tending to throw light on the real author of the crime or its motive,
only, however, increased the enigma and enveloped the woman whom I had
grown to love so fondly in an impenetrable veil of suspicion.
Thoughts such as these filled my mind as, turning from the station in
despair, I went back into the dust and turmoil of Fleet Street, crowded
at that hour by tired thousands hurrying homeward. I loved Eva. Even
though every proof I had obtained pointed to her complicity in the
dastardly affair, she was still my idol. I thought daily, hourly, only
of her, refusing always to suspect her, and endeavouring to convince
myself that the truths I had elicited had no foundation in fact.
Love is blind. When a man loves a woman as I loved Eva Glaslyn at that
moment, nothing can turn aside his passion. I verily believe that if at
that hour I had stood by and seen her in the dock at the Old Bailey,
condemned as a murderess, my affection for her would have been none the
less. I lived for her alone. She was all that was dearest in the world
to me. Mary Blain had, no doubt, noticed my infatuation, yet she had
said nothing, she herself being, I believed, in love with Dick. At
least I could congratulate myself that we had mutually agreed to allow
the past to fade from our remembrance.
Nevertheless, when I thought of Eva, and told myself how passionate was
my affection and how ardent my feelings towards her, the ogre of
suspicion would sometimes arise and cause me to pause in my ecstatic
dreamings. Had she not stiffened strangely, and refused to reciprocate
my love? Had she not point-blank told me that we could never be more
than friends? Had she not, indeed, herself hinted at her own guilt in
that strange sentence which had fallen from her lips?
As I passed up Fleet Street that evening, jostling with the crowd, I
thought of these things, and was plunged into gloom and uncertainty.
The statement of old Lowry was one of which I felt in duty bound to
obtain proof. Yet how? He had declared that a woman exactly resembling
her had purchased a certain drug which could be required for one purpose
alone, while a secret attempt had been made to take my life--by whom I
knew not. Sometimes, in moments of despair, I entertained deep
suspicions of her, but always I found my love in the ascendancy, and
ended by refusing to believe the evidence which I had so diligently and
patiently collected.
For months Scotland Yard had had the matter in hand, but discovering
nothing, had allowed it to drop. Of course, in face of the statement
made by the landlord of the house in Phillimore Place, Boyd was ever
anxious to question Mrs. Blain, but had wisely left this to me. And how
had I succeeded? Only in making discoveries which, although startling
in themselves, increased the mystery rather than solved it.
Even at that moment the identity of the victims remained still unknown.
They were lying in nameless graves in Abney Park Cemetery, having been
buried by the parish. The Blains alone could give us information as to
who they were and who was the unnamed scientist whose discovery was now
creating such a stir throughout Europe. Curious it was that he did not
come forward and claim the discovery as his own, for he must have read
accounts of it in the papers. My own theory in this matter was that he
was unable to communicate with the Royal Institution for one simple
reason, namely, that he was dead--that he was the man whom we found
lying lifeless with that strange mascot, the penny wrapped in paper, in
his pocket.
I walked along to Wellington Street, where I called in to see my friend
Crutchley, one of the sub-editors of the _Morning Post_, who had just
come on duty and was preparing for his night's work. In the offices of
the morning papers activity begins when tired London takes her ease, for
their night is as day, until at dawn the staff, weary after hours of
work by electric light in stifling rooms, go forth chilled and jaded to
their homes to sleep while the world works. For half an hour I sat in
his den, where the table was already piled with telegrams and flimsy,
while he, with coat off, shirt-cuffs turned up, and a cigarette in his
mouth, sighed, sharpened his big blue pencil, and, as he chatted,
commenced to "slaughter" wordy descriptions by too eloquent reporters.
The world wants news, not "gas," is the motto of every working
sub-editor. The public prefer facts without "padding," and to cut out
the latter is the duty of the man who, from the sub-editorial chair,
decides upon what shall appear and what shall be omitted, a duty which
requires the greatest care and judgment. When I left him I recollected
that Dick had gone to some place down in Essex for the _Comet_, and
would not return to eat the diurnal steak in company. Therefore I
wandered aimlessly along the Strand, and turned into a restaurant,
afterwards spending the evening at the theatre.
Nearly three weeks went by and I heard nothing of Boyd, although I had
written to him. At nearly ten o'clock one night, however, when I had
returned to Grey's Inn alone, I found the detective standing in the
half-light against the mantelpiece.
"Bad luck the other night," he said, after we had exchanged greetings.
"What, didn't you follow him?" I cried, surprised.
"No, that's the devil of it," he exclaimed in a tone of bitter
disappointment, sinking into a chair. "You'll remember that that
platform at Ludgate Hill is an island one, and just as I got through the
barrier a train on the other side was moving off to Snow Hill and
Moorgate Street, while one to Blackheath was just on the point of
starting in the opposite direction. I, of course, jumped into the
latter, feeling sure he'd be going out of town."
"And you found out your mistake too late?"
"I examined all the carriages at Loughborough Junction, but there was no
sign of him. He evidently took the other train."
"Unfortunate," I answered, then sat for a few moments in calm
reflection.
"Unfortunate!" he echoed. "It's more than that. We seem foredoomed to
failure in this affair. I've had three men on the job ever since, but
with no result. Even the `narks' know nothing. But," he added, "when I
pointed him out you seemed to know him. Am I right?"
I hesitated, wondering whether to tell him all the facts as I knew them
and obtain his assistance in my further inquiries. It struck me that
he, a professional investigator of crime, shrewd, clear-headed and
acquainted with all the methods and subterfuges of evil-doers, might
suggest some other means which had not occurred to me. I had hitherto
been deterred from making any explanation of my discoveries and
suspicions on account of my strong love for Eva, but now the idea took
possession of me that if I explained the whole to Boyd and told him of
my deep affection for her, we might work together, and perhaps at length
obtain some solution of this most intricate of problems. I was sick
with the giddiness of one who falls from some great height. I had lost
my hold upon the dreams and hopes of life.
"You're quite right, Boyd," I said, handing him the cigarettes. "I know
that man."
"Who is he? He looks rather gentlemanly. That shabby get-up of his was
a fake, I'm sure."
"Yes," I responded. "He's a man pretty well-to-do. His name is Blain,
and he is the husband of Mrs. Blain, whom, you recollect, is supposed to
have taken the house in Phillimore Place."
The detective gave vent to an unwritable exclamation.
"Blain!" he echoed, his face betraying a look of amazement, and pausing
with a lighted vesta in his hand. "Well, that's indeed a facer!" Then
he added: "He must, in that case, know something of the matter as well
as his wife."
At that moment there was a tap at the door of the sitting-room, and old
Mrs. Joad entered with a letter which, she said, had come by the last
post and she had forgotten to give it to me.
By the writing I saw it was from Eva, and eagerly read it. It was a
brief note to say that her mother had been called away to her brother in
Inverness, who was seriously ill, that The Hollies was closed, and that
she had accepted an invitation to remain the guest of the Blains until
Lady Glaslyn's return.