THE ABBESS
When Canning arrived at Myrtle Cottage after his visit to the priory
ruins, he opened the gate as though to pass in; then suddenly shut it
again, and retracing his steps down the road, went to the post office,
where he sent off a telegram in cypher. That done, he made his way to
the village hostel, and sat there till nearly closing time, talking to
the rustics.
About ten minutes to ten he took his departure, and went to
Shepperton’s rooms. Arthur Shepperton was eating his supper, so he
invited the detective to join him, which he did to the extent of a
crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale.
Canning was silent for a time, and the young solicitor looked at him
curiously, but did not disturb his meditations. At length the detective
related what he had experienced an hour or two ago, omitting nothing.
Shepperton listened eagerly, and when he had finished, remarked:
“Well, what do you think now; am I not right?”
But the other shook his head.
“What!” exclaimed his host.
“I don’t know yet; it is a queer case.”
Shepperton looked disappointed, and relapsed into silence. At last he
said:
“It is a pity that black villain saw you—he will know you again.”
By way of reply, Canning drew forth his disguise, and putting it on the
table, exclaimed:
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah, that’s a good thing,” said Shepperton in a relieved voice. Then he
laughed, as he thought of the detective’s ingenuity.
“Has it occurred to you that you were unable to find Miss Hobson’s
trail?”
Shepperton eyed him doubtfully as he replied:
“Well, what of it?”
Canning shook his head with a smile, then clearing his throat, remarked:
“It entered my mind to-night, as I was coming back from the priory,
that it ought to be possible, with the glove you have in your
possession, to find her dead or alive.”
“We did try, as you know.”
“Yes, but you discovered something else, and since then, I understand,
no other effort has been made.”
“No, that is true,” said Shepperton. “What have you in your mind?”
“Well, I think we ought to follow it up,” answered Canning.
“Very well, if you think it at all likely, I have no objection. I’m
willing to do anything that may help to clear the thing up. What do you
propose to do? use Brentwood’s dog again?”
“No,” answered the detective sharply. “I have telegraphed to London for
one of my own dogs, and it should be here to-morrow evening, Thursday
morning latest.”
Whatever misgiving (if any) Shepperton might have had about the
detective, he could not help appreciating the promptness with which he
acted, when once he came to a conclusion.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Let it be Thursday morning. I will meet you
at the priory at——”
“Nine o’clock,” interjected Canning.
For about half an hour they sat talking, and then, with a yawn, the
detective rose, saying:
“I think I will get; I can do with an hour or two’s sleep.”
“Right,” answered his host. “By the way, what do you propose doing
to-morrow?”
“Well, I am a little uncertain as yet. Do you want me for anything in
particular?”
“No,” said the other indifferently.
“Very well, Mr. Shepperton, I will meet you at nine o’clock, Thursday
morning.”
With this remark Canning went, and returning to his rooms, sought his
bed. There for a time he lay, thinking that although he had cracked
many a hard nut, this one looked like proving to be not only the
hardest, but the queerest case he had ever come across.
At half-past nine on the Thursday morning, Shepperton and Canning
stood in the ruined priory, looking at each other; the former with a
perplexed expression, the latter with a wry smile.
Twice had they given the dog the scent, and twice had he done exactly
the same as Hector had done some days ago.
“It is very extraordinary,” said Shepperton, in puzzled tones, “but it
seems to me to be right.”
Canning shook his head as he replied:
“It is against all reason, my friend. There must be crossed trails.”
“Well, it beats me,” returned Shepperton; “what do you say?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that it was not
his business to let anything beat him. Then moving, he said:
“Come, let us try some other spot.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere round about.” Saying which, Canning started the dog at
various points. The other watched him make one or two fruitless
efforts, then sat down on a piece of rock in an indifferent manner. He
had practically lost hope in the venture. But the detective, in his
dogged manner, went quietly about his work, first here, then there, and
gradually got further away.
“Seems to me he might as well search for the proverbial needle,” mused
Shepperton, and, tired of watching, he turned his attention to the
ruins. He may have sat there for five minutes, when he was attracted by
a hail from his companion. With a yawn, he rose and sauntered over to
him; and at once his interest returned, as he looked at the detective’s
face.
“What is it?” he said quickly.
Canning, who was standing about a hundred yards from their original
starting-place, beckoned the other to follow him, and together they
forced their way through some bushes for a few yards. Here Canning
stopped, and pointing to the ground said:
“What do you make of that?”
Shepperton looked eagerly, then shook his head.
“I don’t see anything,” he exclaimed.
“Well,” replied the detective, “there is—or more correctly speaking,
was—a path here. If you will look closely, you will just see faint
traces of it. Now watch the dog!”
Straining at his leash, the animal made his way through the tangled
undergrowth, until they came out upon the path which led to the north
entrance. Here they stopped to take breath.
“What do you make of it?” asked Shepperton easily.
“I think we may make a discovery,” answered the other coolly. “Now,
let’s get on.”
For fully an hour they made steady progress, the hound leading them
along various roads until they came to a brook running across a lane,
and here the dog seemed to be baffled. They halted uncertainly; at last
the detective said:
“We must cross the water.”
They did so, and to Shepperton’s relief, the dog immediately took up
the scent again, and they went on for nearly another hour.
“Are you sure we are not following a will-o’-the-wisp?”
Canning smiled as he replied:
“There is not much fear of that. The dog is following something
tangible, you can depend upon it.”
All at once a sharp turning brought them in view of a long, low house
which lay back from the main road several yards, and was partly hidden
by trees. For this place the dog made a straight course.
Shepperton lifted the latch of the outer gate with nervous fingers, and
they passed through into a drive which led to the main entrance.
“What place is this?” queried Canning abruptly.
“It is known as the ‘Châlet,’ and is occupied, I believe, by some
refugee nuns from France. Beyond that, I don’t think anybody here could
enlighten you.”
“Well, we will soon find out,” replied the detective, whereupon he rang
the bell in a business-like manner. A clang somewhere at the rear of
the premises followed, and shortly after the door was slowly opened
part of the way, by an elderly woman in the garb of a nun. She cast
suspicious eyes at the men, and then seeing the dog, quickly pushed the
door until it remained open only about six inches. The two inquirers
looked at each other, and laughed.
“You had better ask to see the Lady Superior, or whoever is in charge,”
suggested the detective. Shepperton nodded his acquiescence, and
approaching the door, handed in his card, saying:
“Will you convey my apologies to the Lady Superior, and tell her that I
should very much like to see her on a most important matter?”
By way of answer, the woman stretched her arm through the door,
gingerly took the bit of ivory, and disappeared. However, they were not
left standing long in suspense. She shortly returned and said with a
pronounced French accent that her ladyship would see Mr. Shepperton if
his business were important. Then she opened the door sufficiently to
let him pass through, all the while keeping a nervous eye on the dog,
which Canning was holding back by its leash.
She conducted Shepperton to a sort of ante-room, which, though devoid
of furniture with the exception of a few plain chairs and a long, low
oak chest, was spotlessly clean, while the bare boards were polished
to such an extent that he felt some compunction about walking on them
with his heavy boots. But he hardly had time to think about that—he had
indeed scarcely sat down, when her ladyship appeared, bringing with her
a faint suggestion of perfume.
Shepperton rose immediately and bowed. She acknowledged the bow with
a gentle inclination of her head, then raising her eyes stood waiting
for him to speak. For several moments the man stood in silence. There
was something about the woman’s face which made him feel ashamed of his
sex. Never before had he seen such a beautifully spiritual countenance.
Barely forty, Héloïse Limonaire, daughter of the Vicomte d’Angiers,
still retained some of that physical beauty with which nature had
endowed her, and which had in part caused her to take the veil twenty
years ago. Time, however, and the strict rules of a convent life had
emaciated her figure, though her face had gained in sweetness; and that
strange fire, which only comes to those who conquer the flesh, shone
with a pure light from her deep brown eyes. Driven from her native
country, she had sought a refuge in that land to which all refugees
fly, and for two years she had lived quietly in this old country house,
which her private means had enabled her to purchase.
“I d—o trust you will excuse this intrusion,” began Shepperton. “The
business which brings me here is in connection with the disappearance
some weeks ago of Miss Elsie Hobson, from Worlstoke, of which mystery
you have no doubt heard?”
Madame Limonaire shook her head as she replied:
“I’m afraid, Monsieur, that I have not heard of it.”
He looked surprised, so she added by way of explanation:
“You see, we have so little to do with the outer world. But if I can
assist you in any way, I will do so.”
Her sweet, sympathetic voice encouraged Shepperton, and he rejoined:
“It is very kind of you to offer help, Madame—let me explain:
“Some weeks ago, Miss Hobson, to whom I am engaged—disappeared; and no
trace of her could be found. Sometime after that, one of her gloves was
found in the old ruined priory of Melsea.”
Héloïse Limonaire nodded encouragingly, so he continued:
“To-day, by the aid of a bloodhound, we have traced her as far as this
house, and—” he paused, and gave a short laugh, then went on: “Well,
that is all, Madame.”
For some time she looked him fully in the face, and to the man it
seemed as if she were reading what was in his mind. Then she gave a
sigh, and replied:
“Can Monsieur describe the lady?”
“Oh yes. She is twenty-four years of age, medium height, dark brown
hair, brown eyes, dark skin, fairly robust in figure, good teeth rather
prominent, one of them missing.”
She nodded again, and after a pause remarked:
“Have you strong nerves, Monsieur?”
He looked at her a little surprisedly, as he replied:
“Well, I think they are pretty sound. Why?”
“Will you please come with me?”
He followed her out of the room, down the hall into another chamber.
There, she beckoned him to a large French window, which looked out on a
grand old lawn.
“Look!” she said.
The next moment he gave a cry, his face went white, and he clutched
desperately at the casement for support. He could hardly believe his
eyes, and for a space stood looking bewilderedly at the figure of Elsie
Hobson, seated in a chair on the lawn.
“Is it true?” he asked mechanically.
Héloïse Limonaire’s eyes were moist, as she answered compassionately:
“Yes, Monsieur, it is true. Sit down and I will tell you all about it.”
Shepperton sank into a chair, and she began:
“On the night of the 4th of April, about ten o’clock, I felt compelled
to go to the main entrance of the house. Such impressions never mislead
me, and through them I have several times been able to succour people
in distress. This was no exception; I had hardly opened the door,
when a low moan, almost at my feet, drew my attention. Lying on the
steps in an exhausted condition was a young woman. I immediately called
assistance, and we got her into the house. She seemed, poor child,
almost demented with terror, and kept on crying out to us to save
her, while she continually put her hands to her throat, around which
was a little gold cross suspended on a chain of the same material.
Well, toward dawn the next morning she suddenly passed into a coma or
trance, and remained so for over five weeks, until four days ago, when
she as suddenly awoke. But, Monsieur, I am afraid she has lost her
memory”—then added quickly, as she saw his colour go: “Of course that
may only be a temporary matter.”
“I hardly know how to thank you for what you have done,” he said in a
strained voice.
“No thanks are needed, Monsieur, except to Him who has the direction of
all things. I have only done my duty. Wait, and I will fetch Miss ——”
“Hobson,” said Shepperton, filling in the name.
The Lady Superior opened the window, and the man watched her cross the
lawn to where Elsie sat, and take her arm.
In a few minutes they had returned, and Shepperton’s pulse quickened as
he stepped forward and took his fiancée’s hand.
“Elsie, don’t you know me?”
She looked at him strangely, and smiling pathetically, turned to Madame
Limonaire, as though for an explanation.
“The gentleman has called to see you, my child. He says he knows you;
don’t you recognise him?”
“No!” she answered, with a perplexed look. “I don’t think I have met
him before.”
His heart sank; she did not know him; but after all she was alive, and
there was hope. His spirits revived somewhat, as the brighter side of
things presented itself to his mind.
“Well, with your permission, Madame, I will depart for the present, and
if I may impose upon your goodness for a little longer, perhaps you
will care for Miss Hobson until I can make suitable arrangements for
her to be fetched.”
“By all means let her stay here as long as you wish.”
Shepperton thanked her, then added:
“I think I will consult Miss Alletson, the Vicar of Worlstoke’s sister,
who is a friend of mine. I don’t doubt that she will be willing to
fetch Miss Hobson, when we have broken the news to her parents.”
When Shepperton got outside, Canning was sitting on the steps smoking.
He at once noticed by the other man’s face that something extraordinary
had happened. However, he did not speak, but waited for Shepperton to
explain.
“She is there!” he said in a low voice, pointing to the house.
“Good,” answered the detective coolly.
“Come,” said Shepperton; “we can do nothing more at present.”
As they walked along, he related what had taken place. Canning listened
without interrupting, until he had finished. Then he said cheerfully:
“Well, Mr. Shepperton, you must hope for the best; it will not be the
first case of the kind that has been cured, by any means.”
“I hope not,” was the spiritless reply.
They walked in silence for a long time, and then the detective remarked:
“It’s a good job I sent for the dog, eh?”
“Yes; but for that, goodness only knows when we should have found her.
I am grateful, Mr. Canning, for your help.”
“Ah,” he answered reflectively, “and now we have got to lay hold of the
criminal, which I don’t think will be so easy!”
“Don’t you really think so?” rejoined the other, in surprised tones.
“No; there is something in this case which even I don’t understand,
with all my experience.”