I watched Shaw strolling slowly with, the woman through the ill-lit back
streets of Lyons, speaking rapidly with her. She, however, appeared to
listen in silent obstinacy.
He grew angry, yet she seemed to remain obdurate.
She was dressed plainly in tweed skirt and blouse _a la touriste_, and
wore a hat with a long veil in the fashion so often adopted by American
women visiting Europe.
They traversed the working-class district on the eastern side of the
Rhone, where from behind the dingy red blinds of the cafes came the
sounds of music and laughter, and where many groups of factory hands
were idling about enjoying the cool night air. It was a noisy bizarre
district, which favoured me, for I could watch the pair unobserved.
At the corner of the Place Morand they halted for a few moments, while
he emphasised his words by striking his palm with his clenched fist, and
she stood listening, her gaze turned towards the ground. Then,
together, they crossed the big square to the left and traversed the
bridge, passing beneath the deep shadows of the high, handsome Hotel de
Ville.
Though at times I was quite near them, yet I could not, of course, catch
a single word uttered by either. Only by their actions and
gesticulations could I judge, and it appeared plain that she had met him
under compulsion, and was refusing to act as he desired.
And yet he had only that very evening declared the woman to be his worst
and most dangerous enemy!
I reflected as I strode slowly on, keeping the two dark figures in
sight. Shaw had, after all, never concealed from me the fact that he
was wanted by the police for some offence. His sportsmanlike attitude,
combined with his deep devotion to Asta, caused me involuntarily to like
him. Perhaps it was because I loved her and he was her foster-father,
always kind, indulgent, and solicitous for her welfare, that I really
held him in esteem, even though he might be an adventurer.
Yet why had this woman Olliffe--as she now called herself--declared that
Shaw had been Arnold's bitterest enemy? Surely it had been through my
host himself that the woman knew of my existence, and my friendship with
the dead man of mystery!
But even while I watched them turn the corner by the Hotel de Ville, and
stroll up that broad, deserted thoroughfare--in day so busy with its
rows of fine shops, but now quiet and deserted--towards the Place
Bellecour, my thoughts reverted to Asta, she who had lost her lover, but
whom I had grown to love so truly and so well.
Suddenly I turned upon my heel and abandoned pursuit of the pair. What
mattered it to me? Their affairs, whatever they might be, were their
own. I loved Asta. Indeed, because of my deepening affection for her I
had accompanied them upon that tour which had for its object my love's
forgetfulness of the black tragedy which had so suddenly overshadowed
her young life.
Guy Nicholson had promised to reveal something to me in strictest
confidence, but, alas! his lips had been mysteriously closed before he
had had opportunity. Closed by whom?
I turned down upon the quays and, following the Rhone bank, was soon
back at the hotel.
I left my hat in my own room and, on entering our private sitting-room
found, to my delight, that Asta was still there. She had been reading
and had just risen as I entered, for she stood by the pale-green
curtains at the window, holding a fold of them in her hand, and looking
forth into the starlit night, her slim young figure clearly outlined
against their dull soft green, a becoming rose-flush upon her cheeks,
her lips slightly parted, and her eyes bewitchingly bright.
"I've been waiting for Dad, Mr Kemball," she said. "Do you know where
he is?"
"Out, I think," was my reply. "I suppose he's smoking in one of the
cafes. He believed that you had gone to bed, I expect."
And I threw myself lazily into a chair.
I thought that her eyes filled with tears as she turned back towards the
long open windows and gazed out into the Place below. And I confess
that this surprised me.
"You are upset!" I said softly, rising and standing at her side.
"What's the matter, Miss Seymour? Tell me, confide in me--your friend."
"I--I hardly know," she faltered, in a strange hoarse voice. I took her
hand, and found it trembling. "But--"
"But what?" I asked. Her face was turned away from me towards the
night.
"Well," she said, after a long pause, as though reluctant to tell me, "I
fear that Dad has gone out to meet some one. When we arrived in this
hotel I saw among his letters a handwriting which I recognised."
"The writing of a woman, eh?"
She started, turning to me quickly.
"How did you know?" she gasped.
"Well--I guessed," I laughed.
"You guessed correctly. And I have suspicion that he has gone out
to-night to meet her in secret--to--"
I waited for her to conclude her sentence, but her lips closed with a
snap. The colour had left her cheeks while in her eyes was a strange
wild look of fear.
"In confidence, Miss Seymour, I may as well tell you that I saw him
half-an-hour ago walking with a lady--a person who lives near Bath under
the name of Olliffe."
"Then my suspicions are correct!" she cried. "That woman has regained
her power over him. My poor Dad! He has fallen into her clutches. Ah,
Mr Kemball, if you only knew all!" she added. "If only I dare tell
you!"
"Why not tell me? Surely I am your friend! You may trust me not to
betray any secret," I said in deep earnestness.
"They have met to-night. There is some mischief brewing. She is cruel,
evil, unscrupulous."
"I know--and a convicted criminal."
"You know her, then?" she asked quickly, looking into my eyes.
"Yes. I am acquainted with Lady Lettice Lancaster, as she was once
called, and I know that she was sentenced at the Old Bailey for a series
of remarkably ingenious frauds. Is she an associate of your father's?"
"She was once, I believe--before her sentence," replied the girl. "She
exercised over him a strange, incomprehensible fascination, as an evil
woman so often can over a man. He acted at her bidding, and--well, I
know but little, Mr Kemball, but, alas! what I know is, in itself, too
much. I am surprised that Dad, knowing the woman's character, should
dare to again associate himself with her."
"She introduced me to her brother, George King. Do you know him?"
"Yes. He sometimes passes as her brother and sometimes as butler or
chauffeur. But he is her husband, Henry Earnshaw, sometimes known as
Hoare."
"And your father assisted them in their frauds, eh?"
"That is my supposition. I have no actual knowledge, for it was several
years ago, when I was but a girl," was her reply.
"And you fear that the outcome of the meeting to-night may be another
mutual arrangement?"
She nodded sadly in the affirmative.
"The combination of Dad and these people would, indeed, be a formidable
one," she said. "Ah! if he would only take my advice and end it all!
He has sufficient to live upon comfortably. Why does he court disaster
in this way? He has always been, so very good to me, ever since I was a
tiny child, that I cannot help loving him."
I did not reply. What could I say? I longed to speak frankly to her
and take her out of that atmosphere of evil. Yet what could I do? How
could I act?
"I have a suspicion that poor Mr Arnold was a friend of that woman," I
said a few moments later, as she stood against the table before me.
"Yes," was her reply. "He was her friend and benefactor, I believe. He
did all he could for her defence before the judge, but to no avail."
"Somebody betrayed her into the hands of the police?"
"Dad told me so once. He believes it to have been her own husband, the
man Earnshaw."
I did not speak for a few moments. I was thinking of that strange
letter which had threatened vengeance against the mysterious scholar,
Mr Arnold. The latter had been accused of what he had not done, yet
that very accusation had given me a clue to some very curious
circumstances, and had forewarned me as to the true character of the
wealthy widow of Ridgehill Manor.
"Has your father any ground for declaring the woman's conviction to be
due to Earnshaw?"
"Yes, I believe so; but he has never told any one, except myself."
"But if he and Mrs Olliffe become on friendly terms again, he will
doubtless reveal what he knows."
"Probably. Then the man Earnshaw will turn against her--and against Dad
also. In that lies the great peril for Dad which I apprehend."
I realised how far-seeing she was, how carefully she had weighed all the
consequences, and how anxious she was for her father's safety. On the
other hand, however, Shaw was certainly not a man to run any unnecessary
risks. From what I had seen of him, he appeared full of craft and
cunning, as became one who lived upon his wits.
"Tell me what you know concerning Mr Arnold's association with this
woman of a hundred different names," I urged. "I have a reason for my
curiosity."
"I know but little. Once, when I was about fifteen, Dad and I travelled
with Mr Arnold from Vienna to Territet, and met her at the Hotel des
Alpes there. She was very affable and nice to me, and she told me what
an excellent friend Mr Arnold had been to her. I recollect the
incident quite well, for on that day she bought me a little chain
bracelet as a present. I have it now."
"Your father quarrelled with Arnold, I believe?"
"Yes," she said. "They had some difference. I never, however,
ascertained the real facts. He evidently wished to see me, for he wrote
to me making an appointment; and when I went to the hotel for that
purpose, I learnt, alas! that he was dead."
"Had he lived, his intention was to meet your father in secret at Totnes
in Devonshire. Why in secret, I wonder?"
"That same question has been puzzling me for a long time, Mr Kemball,"
she said quickly. "I have arrived at the conclusion that he feared lest
Mrs Olliffe might know of his arrival in England and set some one to
watch his movements. He feared her."
"Then there may have been some reason why the woman desired that they
should not meet, eh?"
"Apparently so."
I reflected. Mrs Olliffe now knew that I had borne a message to Shaw
from the dead man who had destroyed a fortune. Did she fear its
results, and was she, for that reason, holding out to Shaw the olive
branch of peace?