THE LADY FROM BAYSWATER
ON the second evening of my vigil in Sterndale Road my watchfulness was
rewarded by seeing a neat and familiar figure pass up the street and
enter the little newsagent’s.
It needed no second glance to tell me that the visitor to the shop was
the mysterious girl who called me on that memorable night, from the
dispensary at Walworth—Miss Bristowe.
Fortunately she had not noticed my presence. Therefore I at once
concealed myself up a side passage and waiting till she emerged with a
letter in her hand—the one I had addressed to Purvis, I expect—I
started to follow her. Every moment I feared lest she might look round
and discover me, for in those back streets of Hammersmith there is not
much traffic. But I was determined on this occasion to follow her to her
home or to the hiding-place of Purvis.
Turning down Brook Green Road, she walked as far as the Hammersmith
Station of the Underground Railway, where she bought a ticket for
Notting Hill and entered the next train going west. On alighting she
traversed hurriedly the Lancaster Road, for it had begun to rain and she
was without an umbrella, and, turning at last into the Cornwall Road,
ascended the front steps of one of the dark, smoke-blackened houses in
that thoroughfare, not far from the corner of Portobello Road. She rang,
the door was immediately opened by a servant, and she disappeared
within.
Then, after a brief wait, I passed the house near enough to note that
its number was 120. She went in at half-past seven, and, although I
waited in the rain until half an hour before midnight, she did not come
forth again. I therefore concluded that I had at last gained knowledge
of her place of abode.
I wondered whether Purvis lived in that same house. She had called for
his letters at Sterndale Road, and would probably hand them to him at
once. Therefore, after long reflection, I came to the conclusion that he
must live at that address.
It was past one when I re-entered my own rooms, and for an hour before
turning in, occupied myself in re-arranging the chaos effected by the
unknown intruders. The latter had certainly been disappointed with the
result of their investigation, for they had not troubled themselves
about two of the valuable old manuscripts I had found on board the
_Seahorse_—the _Decretales Summa_ of the Monk Henry and the _Book of
John Trethemius_—both of which were lying upon the mantelshelf. No, it
was the key of the cipher of which they had been in such active search,
but which was fortunately far beyond their reach.
Early next morning I renewed my vigil at the corner of the Portobello
and Cornwall Roads, hoping to meet the pretty woman who had so charmed
me.
Two hours I waited, until at last she emerged, as usual neatly dressed
in black. Through the maze of complicated streets she walked to
Westbourne Grove. She had made some purchases, and was gazing into one
of Whiteley’s shop windows when I came up beside her and, raising my
hat, greeted her.
She turned quickly, open-mouthed, and then, recovering from her
surprise, at once gave me her hand and greeted me quite light-heartedly.
“Really, doctor,” she laughed, “you seem quite ubiquitous. You are
always running up against me.”
“Well, it’s a doctor’s profession to go hither and thither quickly,” I
answered. “How is your brother?”
“Greatly better,” was her prompt reply, although I thought I could
detect duplicity in her answer. But she swiftly sought to change the
subject, and as I walked beside her she chatted quite merrily. I did
not, of course, let her know that I was aware of her abode, but, on the
contrary, spoke of it as though it were away at Blackheath, and she did
not seek to contradict me. Miss Bristowe was a clever woman in every
sense of the word, but at the same time she was sweet and winning—most
charming.
In her chatter was a light, irresponsible air that gave to her a _chic_
seldom found in an Englishwoman, while her small hands and feet, her
narrow waist, wide swinging hips, and the manner of her coiffure all
savoured of the Parisienne rather than of the Londoner.
My object was to learn from her something definite regarding the man
Purvis and his movements; her object was to conceal everything and to
mislead me.
She seemed, however, nothing loth to allow me to accompany her into the
several shops where she made small purchases. Once I referred to our
meeting in Calthorpe Street, recollecting how cleverly Purvis had
escaped me there, but she only laughed saying:—
“You must have thought me very rude to hurry away as I did, but I wanted
to get home.”
There were many matters I wished she would explain, but how could I ask
her point-blank? For what reason had she taken me to Blackheath that
night on a fruitless errand, and what connexion had she with the
mysterious Purvis?
Again, it occurred to me that if Reilly had watched that newsagent’s in
Sterndale Road he had probably met her. He might even have become
acquainted with her for aught I knew. I had, I remembered, given him a
detailed description.
But if they were acquainted, she would be utterly unaware of the young
man’s association with me; hence I dare not broach the subject.
While I lingered at her side I could not help remarking, within myself,
upon her affable courtesy and modest reserve towards me. A mystery
surrounded her; that was certain. But in that half-hour I spent with her
in Westbourne Grove I felt that she was not an adventuress, as I had
half believed her to be, and that, save for the fact that she
scrupulously concealed her place of abode, she was open and
honest-minded, with a pleasing grace and sweet smile.
Again, just as I had noticed on the first occasion we had met, I
detected that concealed within her heart was some deep-rooted sorrow,
some painful memory of the past, perhaps, that she could not forget, and
that now and then the sympathetic chord was struck that brought it all
back to her, causing that expression of sadness which appeared at
intervals in her eyes, and those half-suppressed sighs which she
believed I did not notice.
Near midday she took leave of me at Queen’s Road Station, for she would
not allow me to remain with her longer.
“You are really mysterious, Miss Bristowe,” I laughed; “I’ve spent a
most delightful hour, and am most unwilling to end our chat.”
“Ah,” she said, earnestly; “you must, doctor. You’ve been with me
already too long. Among all these people passing there may be one who
knows me, and has noticed me walking with a stranger.”
“Well, is it such a terrible sin?” I laughed.
“All sins are pleasant,” was her quick answer; “that included. But you
must really leave me now. Please do.”
“When you took me to Blackheath you sent me back without satisfying my
curiosity regarding your address,” I said, reproachfully. “Are you going
to act to-day in the same manner? Surely I may know where I can write to
you in order that we may one day enjoy another of these pleasant
gossips,” I pleaded.
She shook her head. Yet I saw that my words had created an impression
upon her, and furthermore that she was in no way averse to my
companionship.
“Why do you send me away like this? Do you fear lest we should be seen
together?”
She sighed that same sigh which had escaped her several times during our
walk. Noticing her apprehension I attributed it to the fear of some
jealous lover. A girl may flirt desperately, but she always hates to be
thought false by the man who loves her.
If she had nothing to conceal from me, why did she not give me her true
address in Cornwall Road? But she had much to hide from my knowledge,
and with her honest woman’s heart it required all her nerve and
ingenuity to successfully mislead me.
“No,” she faltered, at last; “we must not be seen together. You think
the manner I treated you that night at Blackheath extraordinary. So it
was. But it was imperative—for your sake!”
“I don’t understand you, Miss Bristowe,” I declared, quickly. “How was
it for my sake?”
“Ah!” she cried, as though in distress. “Believe me, I acted for your
own welfare! I can give you no further explanation.”
“But you mystify me!” I said. “My curiosity is but natural.”
“Certainly; but I’m sorry that at present I am unable to satisfy it,”
and her lips compressed themselves as a slight sigh again escaped them.
I was undecided whether she was wilfully deceiving me or whether it was
under dire compulsion that she was concealing her motives.
“By your words you lead me to believe that you are my friend, Miss
Bristowe; therefore it is surely permissible to give me an address
where, in the future, I may write to you?”
“But I can’t see what good can come of it,” she responded, hesitatingly.
“In fact, only harm can result in our acquaintanceship.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I have said. If we remain apart it will be better for both
of us. Yet, somehow, Fate seems to throw us constantly into each other’s
society.”
She was, of course, in ignorance of how I had traced her from Sterndale
Road.
“True,” I remarked, “and that seems to me all the more reason why you
should name some place where I may write.”
“Well,” she said at last, after long hesitation and blushing slightly;
“if you should, at any time, really desire to write to me, you may
address your letter to Farmer’s Library, Kensington High Street.”
Thanking her I scribbled the address, then tried to persuade her to
allow me to remain longer. But she steadily refused.
“I must go now,” she said, “and although it sounds ungracious, I trust
it may be a long time before we meet again.”
“Why!” I asked, in surprise.
“Because such meetings place us both in peril,” was her vague yet
ominous answer.
“You perhaps object to my company?”
“On the contrary,” she hastened to reassure me, “I find it most
agreeable. But it behoves all of us, at certain times, to be
circumspect.”
She allowed me to shake her hand, then wishing me “Adieu!” turned back
again towards Westbourne Grove, with an excuse that she had forgotten to
make a purchase.
I saw through her ruse, and, by traversing the side streets, arrived at
Cornwall Road before her, and standing in an entry unobserved watched
her re-enter the house with a latch-key.
As far as that morning’s work was concerned it was highly satisfactory.
The chief fact that worried me now was the remarkable disappearance of
Philip Reilly. He was smart, wary, athletic, the very last fellow to
fall into any trap. Yet my apprehensions, just as those of his friends,
were rendered grave by reason of his continued silence. All I knew was
that he had been successful in his observations on the newsagent’s shop
in Sterndale Road, but in what manner he had not explained.
Like most young men who endeavour to solve a mystery, he had quickly
become an enthusiast, with a fixed notion that we should discover the
treasure.
Myself, I was far from sanguine, although, on the face of it, only that
document sold by Ben Knutton stood between us and fortune. If we could
but gain possession of that parchment for half an hour the secret of the
hiding-place would be ours.
But George Purvis and his unknown but unscrupulous associates knew its
value, just as we did, therefore it was far too well guarded.