From behind the curtains of the sitting-room Eileen Meredith could see
two men occasionally pass and re-pass the house. They did not go by
often, but she knew that even if she could not see them they always held
the house in view. They were not journalists--they were more sedate,
older men. Nor did they molest any one who entered or left the house.
They merely exercised a quiet, unwearying, unobtrusive surveillance, and
Eileen knew that Heldon Foyle had taken his own way of preventing her
from seeing Sir Ralph Fairfield. She felt certain that were she to leave
the house the men would follow her. She did not guess, however, that
Foyle had intended them to give her an opportunity of discovering their
presence. She would be the more unlikely to persist in her rash resolve
if she knew it would be frustrated. Nor did she know that Fairfield was
equally closely watched in all his comings and goings.
The hysterical outbreak that had been provoked by the superintendent's
penetration of her doings when she had visited his office at Scotland
Yard had been followed by hours of almost complete collapse. To her
father enough had been told to make him hurriedly summon a specialist.
The doctor explained.
"I have known similar cases follow a great shock. She is mentally
unbalanced on one point. Unless anything occurs to excite her in
connection with that, time will effect a cure. She must not be opposed
in her wishes, and I would suggest that she be taken out of London and
an effort made to distract her. Plenty of society, outdoor
amusements--anything to occupy her mind."
"I suggested that we should leave London," said Lord Burghley gloomily.
"She refuses."
"Then don't press her. Ask her friends to visit her, and don't let her
leave the house except with a competent attendant."
So it was that Eileen found herself practically a prisoner in her own
home. She received the visitors invited by her father at first with a
mechanical courtesy, but later on with an assumption of cheerfulness
that deceived her father and even to more extent the doctor. She had
begun to realise that she would never shake off the vigilance which
surrounded her until she had convinced folk that she had regained her
normal spirits. Her capabilities as an actress, which had won for her
leading parts in many amateur plays, had never been taxed so hardly. But
then she had invariably been cast for comedy. Now she felt she was
playing tragedy. For night and day she never forgot. Always there was
one thought hammering at her brain.
She withdrew into the room as a neat little motor-brougham halted at the
door. In a little while Mrs. Porter-Strangeways was announced.
Reluctantly Eileen condescended to welcome the portly, middle-aged dame
who was tacitly recognised as being the leader of American society in
London. The girl smiled brightly as the woman rose to greet her with
both arms outstretched.
"It is so good of you, dear Mrs. Porter-Strangeways," she exclaimed. "I
have only my friends to look forward to now."
Mrs. Porter-Strangeways indicated her companion by some subtle means of
her own.
"You poor girl!" she exclaimed, throwing just the right reflection of
sympathy into her not unmusical voice. "I called before, but you were
unfit to see any one then. I took the liberty of bringing a friend to
see you--the Princess Petrovska."
The name conveyed nothing to Eileen. She knew not how the woman she
faced was concerned in the tangle in which she herself was involved. She
saw only a slim, beautifully dressed woman, whose age might have been
somewhere between thirty and forty, and who still laid claim to a
gipsy-like beauty. The dark eyes of the Princess dwelt upon the girl
with a sort of well-bred curiosity. Mrs. Porter-Strangeways imparted
information in a swift whisper.
"A Russian title, I believe. Met her in Rome two years ago. She is a
delightful woman--so bright and happy, though I believe, poor dear, she
had a terrible time before her husband died. She called on me yesterday
and asked me to bring her to see you. She's so interested in you. You
don't mind?"
The quick thought that she was being made a show of caused a spasm to
flicker across Eileen's face. Almost instantly she regained her
composure, and for half an hour Mrs. Porter-Strangeways prattled on. The
other took little part in the conversation. Eileen could feel that the
Princess was watching her closely under her cast-down eyelashes. The
woman repelled and yet fascinated her. When the time came for
leave-taking she found herself giving a pressing invitation to the other
to call again. With a smile of satisfaction the Princess promised.
They had not been gone a quarter of an hour when the Princess was
announced alone. Eileen, a little astonished, received her
questioningly.
"I had to see you alone," explained the older woman. "I have something
of importance to say to you--that's why I made Mrs. Porter-Strangeways
bring me. I feared that you would not see me otherwise."
"To see me alone?" repeated Eileen, with the air of one completely
mystified. Then, as the other nodded grimly, she closed the door of the
room.
With a murmured "Pardon me" the Princess walked across the room and
turned the key. "It will be better so," she said. "What I have to say
must not be overheard. The life of a--some one may depend on secrecy."
Eileen had begun to wonder if her strange visitor were mad. There was
something, however, in her quiet, methodical manner that forbade the
assumption. The Princess Petrovska had settled herself gracefully in a
great arm-chair.
"No, I am not mad." She answered the unspoken question. "I am quite in
my senses, I assure you. I have come to you with a message from one you
think dead--from Robert Grell."
The room reeled before Eileen's eyes. She clutched the mantelpiece with
one hand to steady herself.
"From one I _think_ dead!" she repeated. "Bob _is_ dead." She gripped
the other woman fiercely by the shoulder and almost shook her in the
intensity of her emotion. "He is dead, I tell you. What do you mean? I
know he is dead. Do not lie to me. He is dead."
The Princess Petrovska glanced gravely up into the strained features of
the girl. Her own face was a mask.
"Calm yourself, Lady Eileen," she said. "You have been made the victim
of a wicked deceit. He is not dead--but a man wonderfully like him is. I
have come here at his request to relieve your mind." She dropped her
voice to a whisper. "At the same time, he is in grave danger, and you
can help him."
The girl's hands dropped to her side, and she regarded her visitor
helplessly. A new hope was beginning to steal into her heart, but her
reason was all on the other side.
"He is dead," she protested faintly. "Fairfield killed him. Why should
he hide if he is not dead? Why should he not come here himself? Why
should he send you?"
"Don't be a fool," retorted the other impatiently, and the impertinence
of the words had the effect intended of bracing the half-fainting girl.
"He does not come because to do so would be madness--because if he
showed himself he would be at once arrested by Scotland Yard detectives.
They believe him to be the murderer of his double--a man named
Goldenburg. There is a note he gave me for you."
The letters danced before Eileen's eyes as she tore open the thin
envelope and held what was undoubtedly Robert Grell's writing in her
shaking hand. She was startled as never before in her life save when she
heard of the murder. Slowly she read, the words biting into her brain--
"DEAREST,--Forgive me for not letting you know before that I am
safe. I had no means of communicating with you with safety. The man
who is dead was killed by no wish of mine. Yet I dared not run the
risk of arrest. The bearer of this is an old friend of mine who
will herself be in peril by delivering this. Trust her, and destroy
this. She will tell you how to keep in touch with me."
There was no signature. Mechanically Eileen tore the letter in two and
dropped the fragments on the blazing fire. She felt the dark eyes of the
Princess upon her as she did so. A spasm of jealousy swept across her at
the thought that this woman should have been trusted, should have had
the privilege of helping Grell rather than herself. She strove to push
it aside as unworthy. He was alive. He was alive. The thought was
dominant in her mind. She could have sung for very joy.
"Well?" asked the Princess.
"I don't understand," said Eileen wearily. "He does not explain. There
is nothing clear in the note but that he is alive."
"He dare say no more. We--that is--he's succeeded in evading the police
so far. If by any chance that letter had fallen into their hands, it
would have told them no more than they knew at present."
"Where is he?" demanded Eileen. "I must go to him."
"No, that will never do. You would be followed. I will give any message
for you. You can help, but not in that way. He is in need of money. Have
you any of your own? Can you let him have, say, five hundred pounds at
once?"
The girl reflected a moment.
"There is my jewellery," she said at last. "He--or you--can raise more
than five hundred on that. Wait a moment."
She left the room, and a smile flitted across the grave face of the
Princess. A few moments later she returned with a little silver casket
in her hands.
"And now," she said, "tell me what happened. Who killed this man
Goldenburg?"
The Princess Petrovska gave a dainty little shrug.
"Mr. Grell shall tell you that in his own fashion," she said. "Listen."
For ten minutes she talked rapidly, now and again writing something on a
slip of paper and showing it to Eileen. The girl nodded in
comprehension, occasionally interjecting a question. At last the
Princess rose.
"You fully understand?" she said.
"I fully understand," echoed Eileen.