ON the day after that upon which Freyberger had telephoned to the Paris
police requesting a personal interview with Mademoiselle Lefarge, London
awoke to find itself effaced by fog.
Mrs Hussey, the old woman who stole Hellier’s tea and whisky and coal,
made his bed, lit his fire, and attended generally to his wants and
discomforts, had set the breakfast things out for him, placed his eggs
and bacon in the fender to keep warm, and his letters by his plate.
Having attended to these duties she had departed, swallowed up in the
fog.
There were three letters on the table. Two small bills and an invitation
to a dance in Bayswater. A more depressing post could not have been
invented for him.
He had hoped to find an envelope post-marked Boulogne-sur-Mer and
addressed to him in a characteristic woman’s hand. He had received no
reply to his last letter, but there was the chance that one might come
by the second post.
London is a terrible place for the anxious heart expecting news by post.
There are so many posts; every hour you hear the double knock at some
one else’s door, every hour you see the man in blue passing, the man who
could bring you so much if the fates only willed.
The second post came and brought with it a circular.
Have you ever noticed in life the part played by the unexpected? You are
looking forward to some pleasure, some journey, some meeting, you,
perhaps, are full of doubt as to whether your finances will meet the
occasion, whether the carriage will come at the proper time, whether the
woman you are to meet will keep the appointment.
All your fears are groundless, the money arrives, the carriage is at the
door, the lady is waiting for you, and you are just getting into the
carriage with a bunch of violets in your hand and a fat cheque in your
pocket, when a messenger arrives to say that your aunt is dying.
You had never thought of that. On the other hand the cheque has not
arrived, the carriage has not come, you are in despair, and Providence
appears in the form of Jones, a debtor whom you had forgotten for years,
now a millionaire back from South Africa.
Hellier was leaving his rooms with his overcoat tightly buttoned up, a
muffler round his neck and a feeling of desolation at his heart, when,
on the stairs he knocked against a telegraph boy, took a telegram from
him, opened it and read by the light of the gas jet on the lower
landing:
“Boulogne-sur-Mer.
“DEAR FRIEND: We arrive London to-day. Meet us Langham Hotel six
o’clock; important.
CÉCILE LEFARGE.”
As Hellier walked across the courtyard of Clifford’s Inn with this
missive in his pocket, the sky above was sapphire blue, the sun was
shining brightly, also trees were blooming around him and nightingales
singing in their branches. At least, so it seemed to him till a
collision with Mr Crump, K.C., a portly gentleman, who was not in love,
brought him to his senses.
He did not ask himself what could possibly have happened to bring Cécile
to London. He only knew that she was coming, that she had telegraphed to
him and that he would meet her at six. As if nature had suddenly grown
kind as well as fate, towards noon the fog cleared away, the sun shone
out and the light of a perfect spring day was cast upon the world.
At six o’clock to the minute he presented himself at the Langham,
ascertained that Mademoiselle Lefarge and her aunt had arrived and were
expecting him and was shown to their private sitting-room.
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