AFTER MANY YEARS.
Left alone to herself, Maria Delahay had summed up the situation
clearly and logically. Beyond all doubt her sister was still alive.
Beyond all doubt Carlotta had been staying at the Grand Hotel within
the past twelve months. She, too, seemed to have had her misfortunes,
misfortunes more keen and cruel than even those of her younger sister.
It was very strange that Maria should learn the truth in this fashion.
It was stranger still that she should discover the house to which
Carlotta had gone on leaving the hotel. Up to this moment Maria had no
idea of going out herself. She intended to go straight to bed and
await her husband's return.
Now a strange restlessness came over her. She felt it impossible to
remain imprisoned within those four walls. There was no likelihood of
Louis Delahay's return for the next two hours. Why, then, should she
not go out and take a cab as far as Isleworth Road? It was very late,
of course, but then London was a late place, and a midnight call no
novelty.
Allowing herself to act on the impulse of the moment, Maria walked
downstairs, and out into the Strand. Hailing a cab, she was driven to
Isleworth Road, where she gave orders for the driver to stop. The
locality was a respectable one, and there were lights in a good many
of the houses; but at number seventeen Mrs. Delahay met with
disappointment. The house was not empty, though the blinds were down,
and there was not a light to be seen. The dingy nature of the steps
and the tarnished look of the brasswork testified to the fact that
neither had received any attention of late. As Maria stood there
ringing the bell for the third time, in the faint hope of making
somebody hear, a policeman came along.
"You are wasting your time there, lady," he said civilly enough. "The
people are not at home. I think they are coming back at the end of the
week, because my instructions to keep a special eye on the house don't
go beyond Saturday."
Maria thanked the officer and went back in a cab. She would have liked
to have asked more questions, but she restrained her natural
curiosity. After all, it was not a far cry to Saturday, and even then
she might meet with a disappointment. In all probability her sister
had left London long ago.
Maria was thinking all these things over now that Walter Lance had
gone. She wondered that her sister had so completely passed out of her
mind. But, then, she had had so many terrible anxieties to weigh her
down. She could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy. She paced up
and down the room in a vain attempt to get away from herself. The
clocks outside were striking the hour of midnight, but the roar of the
Strand was going on still as if it were high noon. A sudden resolve
came to the woman. She would go out at once and try her luck at
Isleworth Road again.
She took no cab this time. She knew the way. As she walked along she
was conscious of the fact that she was being followed. She smiled
bitterly to herself. What had those people to be afraid of? Did they
think she was going to run away?
Her heart gave a great leap as she saw the lights gleaming behind the
drawn blinds at No. 17. She had only to ring once, then the door was
promptly opened by a typical English servant, who waited for the
visitor to speak.
"I think there is a lady here I want to see," Maria stammered. "At
least she was here for some time in the spring. You see, she is my
sister, and we have not met for twenty years. It may appear strange,
but I don't even know her name."
It seemed to Maria that this was a proper precaution on her part.
Though her explanation sounded weak enough, to her great relief she
saw the servant smile and open the door a little wider.
"That is all right, madam," the servant said. "I can see that you are
my mistress's sister by the likeness. Will you please come this way."
The next five minutes seemed like an hour to Maria. Then the door
opened, and a tall, dark woman came in. The two looked at one another
for quite a minute in absolute silence. It was so strange to meet
after all these years, so sad for both to see how the other had
altered. Then Maria Delahay moved forward, and the two women kissed
each other almost coldly.
"Why did you come here?" the Countess said. "How did you manage to
find me out? I thought you were dead."
"I thought you were dead, too, till the other night," Maria said. "I
was told that twenty years ago. I should not be here at all but for an
amazing chance. You will remember that you were staying at the Grand
Hotel some time in the spring, and it so happens that my rooms are on
the same floor as yours, and that the same chambermaid is still there.
When she welcomed me as an old customer I guessed by instinct that you
were still alive. And if you only knew it, there is a providence
behind this thing."
Countess Flavio appeared to be listening in a dull, mechanical kind of
way. There was no disguising the fact that she was both distressed and
disconcerted to find herself face to face with her long-lost sister
again. "You know nothing of my history?" she asked. "Not till
tonight," Maria said. "I have recently been listening to it. I knew
nothing. How could I know anything? When our dream of happiness came
so suddenly to an end I became practically a prisoner in that dreadful
old house of ours near Naples. I was told that you were dead, and I
believed the story. I knew nothing of your existence till a day or two
ago. I was utterly ignorant of the fact that you had had such a
dreadful time. Not that I would believe anything they say, Carlotta,
because I know what you were in the old days. But however dreadful
your experiences have been, you, at any rate, snatched a brief
happiness. You married the man of your choice. How did you manage to
escape?"
"Oh, don't ask me," Carlotta Flavio said bitterly. "If you only knew
everything you would see that you were far better off in your prison
than I was with my liberty. Do you know that I was five times tried
for my life? Do you know that for four years I was the most execrated
woman in South Italy? But I am not going into that now. I want to know
what brings you here this evening. Why you should come at such an
inconvenient time?"
"But why inconvenient?" Mrs. Delahay protested. "We were fond of one
another in the old times. And what more natural than I should seek out
my sister at the first opportunity? But you are changed. Doubtless
your misfortunes have soured you. I have had my misfortunes, too. Of
course you have heard lately a good deal about Mr. Louis Delahay--I
mean the unfortunate artist who was found murdered in his studio the
other night?"
Countess Flavio started. Her lips grew white.
"Who has not heard of it?" she said. "The papers are full of the
tragedy. People are talking about nothing else. But you are not going
to tell me that there is any connection----"
"Indeed, I am," Maria went on. "As I said just now, for years I was no
better than a prisoner. I should be a prisoner still if our parents
had lived. Then, finally, when I found my freedom, I made a discovery
that there was absolutely no money left. I was forced to get my own
living. I had nothing beyond my brush, and things were going from bad
to worse with me when I made the acquaintance of Louis Delahay. We
always liked one another from the first, and when he asked me to marry
him I gladly consented. It seemed to me that the way was opening up
for a happy middle-age. It seemed to me that Fate had got tired of
persecuting me at last. I married Louis Delahay and we came back to
England."
"You married Delahay?" the Countess said mechanically, "and you came
back to England? I am trying to realise it. I read the account of the
inquest. I know that people are saying that Delahay's wife is
responsible for his death; but I did not dream then that it was my own
sister whom folks were condemning. I cannot believe it now. But why
did you go out that evening. If you had remained in your room nobody
would have been----"
"I left the hotel to come here," Maria replied. "But I found that you
were not in London. And now I am going to tell you why it is that I
have refused to speak, why it is that I have allowed people to regard
me as a perjurer. You say you read the account of the inquest. Do you
recollect what a poor creature called Stevens said? He swore, and,
what is more, he believed every word he said, that he saw Louis and
myself together in Fitzjohn Square early on that fatal morning. Come,
if you read the paper carefully, you must have seen that. It was the
most sensational piece of evidence given at the inquest. The man
picked me out in court, and said positively that he had seen me with
Louis. But he didn't, as you know perfectly well."
"As I know perfectly well?" the Countess stammered. "What have I got
to do with it? Where do I come in?"
Maria Delahay threw up her hands with an impatient gesture. There was
a steady gleam in her eyes now. She had lost all her listless manner.
"I was not there," she said, "because I was somewhere else. That James
Stevens saw someone with my husband on that morning is absolutely
certain. It is absolutely certain, too, that he did not see me. Then
who did he see whose likeness to me is so great as to deceive a pair
of keen eyes under a brilliant electric light? It was you, _you_,
Carlotta, who were walking with my husband at that hour in the
morning. Now tell me what it all means."