"Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can't resist the
fascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are an
ardent novel-reader--eh? People fond of novels always devour newspaper
mysteries."
I admitted a fondness for healthy and exciting fiction, when he
laughed, saying--
"Well, I myself find that nearly half one reads in some of the
newspapers now-a-days may be classed as fiction. Even party politics
are full of fictions, more or less. Surely the public must find it
very difficult to winnow the truth from all the political lies, both
spoken and written. To me, elections are all mere campaigns of
untruth."
And so he again cleverly turned the drift of our conversation.
About five o'clock I left, driving back to Andover Junction, and
arriving at Waterloo in time for dinner.
I took a taxi at once to Wilton Street, but there was no letter from
Sylvia. She gave no sign. And, indeed, why should she, in face of her
letter of farewell?
I dressed, and sat down alone to my dinner for the first time in my
own dining-room since my wife's disappearance.
Lonely and sad, yet filled with fierce hatred of those blackguardly
adventurers, of whom her own father was evidently one, I sat silent,
while old Browning served the meal with that quiet stateliness which
was one of his chief characteristics. The old man had never once
mentioned his missing mistress, yet I saw, by the gravity of his pale,
furrowed face, that he was anxious and puzzled.
As I ate, without appetite, he chatted to me, as had been his habit in
my bachelor days, for through long years of service--ever since I was
a lad--he had become more a friend than a mere servant. From many a
boyish scrape he had shielded me, and much good advice had he given me
in those reckless days of my rather wild youth.
His utter devotion to my father had always endeared him to me, for to
him there was no family respected so much as ours, and his
faithfulness was surely unequalled.
Perhaps he did not approve of my marriage. I held a strong suspicion
that he had not. Yet old servants are generally apt to be resentful at
the advent of a new mistress.
I was finishing my coffee and thinking deeply, Browning having left me
alone, when suddenly he returned, and, bending, said in his quiet
way--
"A gentleman has called, Mr. Owen. He wishes to see you very
particularly." And he handed me a card, upon which I saw the name:
"Henri Guertin."
I sprang to my feet, my mind made up in an instant. Here was one
actually of the gang, and I would entrap him in my own house!