The figure before me was pale-faced and wan. She wore an old blue felt
hat with wide brim which was most unbecoming, a faded jersey that had
once been dark mauve, and an old black skirt, while her boots were
cracked and bulging, and she was without gloves.
She smiled at me inanely, as she came across the room and Theed closed
the door after her.
"Roseye!" I gasped. "Whatever does this mean?"
"Is it really you!" cried Teddy, equally amazed.
"It is," she replied in a low, very weary voice.
I saw that she appeared exhausted, for she clutched at the edge of the
table, so I led her gently to my chair wherein she sank inertly, with a
deep sigh.
"Roseye," I said. "Where have you been?"
She turned her gaze upon the fire. Her face remained hard-set. The
expression upon her white countenance was one of tragedy.
Her chest heaved and fell, and I saw that her ungloved hands, grasping
the arms of the chair, were trembling.
"You are cold!" I cried. And dashing to the cupboard I got out some
brandy and a siphon.
She sipped a few drops from the glass I offered her, smiling in grateful
acknowledgment.
Then, as I stood upon the hearthrug facing her, I repeated my question:
"Tell us, Roseye. Where have you been?"
In her great blue eyes I noticed a strange, vacant expression; a look
such as I had never seen there before. She only shook her head
mournfully.
"What has happened?" I inquired, bending and placing my hand tenderly
upon her shoulder.
But, with a sudden movement, she buried her face in her small hands and
burst into a torrent of tears.
"Don't ask me!" she sobbed. "Don't ask me, Claude!"
"Look here, old chap," exclaimed Teddy, who was quite as mystified as
myself. "I'll come back later on. That Miss Lethmere is safe is, after
all, the one great consolation."
And, rising, my friend discreetly left the room.
When he had gone I fell upon my knees before my rediscovered love and,
taking her cold hands in mine, covered them with hot, fervent kisses,
saying:
"Never mind, darling. You are safe again--and with me!"
All my efforts to calm her, however, proved unavailing, for she still
sobbed bitterly--the reaction, no doubt, of finding herself again beside
me. With women, in circumstances of great strain, it is the feminine
privilege to relieve themselves by emotion.
"Speak!" I urged of her. "Tell me where you've been, darling?"
But she only shook her head and, still convulsed by sobs, sat there
inert and heedless of all about her.
As I knelt in silence, the quiet of my room remained unbroken save for
the low ticking of the clock, and the soft sobs of the woman I so dearly
loved.
Tenderly I took my own handkerchief and wiped those tears from her
white, hard-set face. Then, for the first time, I saw that her left
eyebrow showed a dark red scar. It had not been there on the last
occasion when we had been together.
That mark upon her brow set me wondering.
Across her forehead she drew her hand wearily, as at last she sat
forward in her chair, an action as though to clear her confused and
troubled brain.
"Let me take off your hat," I said and, with a man's clumsiness, removed
the old felt hat from her head.
As I did so her wealth of soft hair, which I saw had been sadly
neglected, fell unkempt about her shoulders.
"That--_that woman_!" she suddenly ejaculated, half starting from her
seat. "_Ah! that woman_!" she cried.
"What woman, dear?" I asked, much mystified at her words.
"That woman--that awful woman!" she shouted.
"Ah! send her away--save me from her--Oh! save me. _Look_!"
And she pointed straight before her at some phantom which she had
conjured up in her imagination.
At once I realised that she was hysterical, and that some hideous ghost
of her past adventure had arisen before her.
"Calm yourself, darling," I urged softly, my arm around her waist.
"There is no one here. You are alone--alone with me--Claude!"
"Claude!" she echoed, turning toward me and gazing blankly into my eyes
with an expression which lacked recognition. "Oh--yes!" she added in a
tone of surprise. "Why--yes--Claude! Is it you--_really you_?"
"Yes. I am Claude--and you are alone with me," I said in great
apprehension, for I feared lest she might be demented. No doubt she had
been through some terrible experiences since last I had clasped her
hand.
Again she sighed deeply. For the next few moments she gazed into my
eyes in silence. Their stony stare thrilled and awed me. At last a
very faint smile played about her lips, and she exclaimed: "Oh, yes!
How awfully silly of me, Claude! How very foolish. Forgive me, won't
you?"
"Forgive you, darling! Why, of course," I said, pressing her closely to
me.
"But--but that terrible woman!" she cried, still terrified. "You won't
let her come near me again--will you?"
"No. She shan't. I'm with you, and will protect you, darling. Trust
in me."
"Ah!" she sighed. "It was awful. How--how I've lived through it I
don't know."
"Through what?" I asked, eager to induce her to tell her story.
"No," she answered. "You--you would never believe me!--you would never
understand! Oh! that woman! Look!" and in terror she raised her finger
and pointed again straight before her. "Look! Don't you see her!
She's fixed her eyes upon me--_those awful leopard's eyes_!"
"There's nobody here, Roseye," I assured her. "You're alone with me."
"Alone! Why, no. She's there--see straight over there!" cried my love,
her face distorted by wild terror. "Ah! she's coming nearer!" she
shrieked, again covering her face with her hands, as though to shut out
the imaginary face.
"Ugh!" she shuddered. "Don't let her touch me! Don't let her touch me!
Don't, Claude--for Heaven's sake, I beg of you. That woman--that awful
woman with the leopard's eyes!"
"Come, come," I said, rather severely. "You must not give way to these
hallucinations, Roseye. There's nobody here, I assure you. It's all--"
"But she _is_ here!" she shrieked. "You can't deceive _me_; she's
here--with us. Perhaps you can't see her--but I can. Oh! those
horrible eyes--the fiend! Ah! what I have suffered!"
I did not reply. I was at a loss how to act. Sight of my beloved
betraying such abject terror unnerved me.
Too well did I recollect the story of the railway signalman near Welwyn,
how, when the night-express came out of the tunnel tearing north from
London, he had distinctly seen two women struggling. One was in the
grasp of the other.
Was this the woman whom Roseye believed was present in my room--the
mysterious Woman with the Leopard's Eyes?
I crossed to the window, and standing at the spot where at my love
declared she could see the mysterious female by which she seemed
haunted, said:
"Now, look, dear! There is nobody here."
"There is!" she persisted. "She's there just behind you. Mind! She
intends to do you harm! Yes," she added. "I saw her at Hendon. I
remember, most distinctly! She knows you--and she means to do you
harm!"
I returned to her side, frantic at my inability to convince her that all
was her imagination.
There was no doubt that, deeply impressed upon her memory, was some
recollection of terrifying events in which a mysterious woman had played
a leading part.
As I looked at that blank, yet horrified expression upon her pale, sweet
face I became more than ever convinced that she had been held beneath
the thraldom of some woman of evil intent--that woman whom she described
as possessing the crafty eyes of a leopard.
For a full half-hour I argued with her, endeavouring to calm her but,
unfortunately, to little avail. Presently, however, her expression
altered, she grew less agitated, until at last, as I sat holding her in
my arms, I kissed her fondly upon the lips, and again begged:
"Do tell me, my darling, where you have been all this long time? I've
searched for you everywhere."
"I--I don't know," was her blank reply. "I can't tell you."
"But surely you recollect something?" I urged eagerly. "Those are not
your own clothes that you are wearing. Where did you get them from?"
She looked quickly down at her jersey and at her skirt, and then raised
her eyes to me in dismay. Apparently, for the first time, she now
realised that she was dressed in some one else's clothes.
"That's curious!" she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. "That's
very curious. That hat is not mine, either!"
"No, it isn't," I said, handing it to her to examine, which she did
critically.
Then, placing her hands idly upon her knees, she remained for a long
time with brows knit in silence, apparently trying to recall the past.
"You lost your chatelaine--the one I gave you," I said, hoping that the
fact might, in some way, stir the chords of her blunted memory.
"My chatelaine!" she repeated, looking at me vacantly.
"Yes. You lost your purse and money, and other things," I said. "I
think you must have lost it from a train."
Suddenly she raised her face again to mine, and asked in a half-dazed
kind of way:
"Are you--_are you Claude_?"
"Yes," I replied. "Surely you remember me!"
"Oh--yes! But--oh! my head--my poor head!" and she placed her hands to
her temples and drew a long breath.
"Cannot you recollect--do try and tell me something. Try and describe
to me what occurred after you left home. What happened to you?"
She shook her head sadly.
"I can't tell you," she said at last, speaking quite rationally. "I
really can't."
"But you must recollect something, dear?" I asked. "Your chatelaine
was found dropped from a train on the line near Welwyn station, on the
Great Northern Railway."
"On the railway?" she repeated slowly. "Ah!"
"That brings back something to your memory, dearest, does it not?" I
inquired anxiously, for I now felt convinced that she remembered
something regarding her loss.
"Yes--but--but--well, I can't tell you about it, Claude."
"You can't, dearest--or do you mean that you decline to tell me!
Which?"
For a few moments she was again silent. Her blank white face had become
almost as its own self, with that sweet, calm smile I had known so well.
"I must decline to tell you," she slowly answered at last. "I'm sorry--
but I--I only ask your forgiveness, Claude."
"What is there for me to forgive?" I cried dismayed. "You disappeared.
Everybody feared foul play--and--"
"There was foul play!" she interrupted in a hoarse voice.
"By whom?"
"By somebody."
"You know who were your enemies?" I asked quickly. "You must know,
indeed."
She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though
fearing to meet my gaze.
"Cannot you name them--cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your
duty," I said in a low, persuasive tone. "Reveal the truth to me,
Claude."
"No, never!" was her plain and instant reply.
"Why not?"
"There are reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Reasons of my own. Strong reasons."
"And may I not know them?" I asked with some resentment.
"No, Claude--I can never reveal the truth--not even to you." She was
now quite her old self.
"But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly," I
protested. "You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my
darling."
"Exactly," she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of
hers. "That's just my point. If you love me as you declare--and I
believe you do--then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you
that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further
questioning me."
Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply.
It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.
She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at
last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement
whatever regarding it.
Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in
itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the
discovery of that secret memorandum in her card-case, and the allegation
made against her by the red-tabbed Intelligence officer.
I was on the point of telling her what had been discovered--the purport
of the cipher-message and the suspicion which rested upon her. Yet,
would that induce her to be frank and tell me the truth? I decided that
it would not, therefore I said nothing. Instead, I remarked in a low,
sympathetic voice: "I really think, darling, that it is due to me--to
your people also--that you should tell us the truth of what happened to
you, and of the identity of your enemies."
"I have already told you, Claude," was her quiet response. "If you
really love me, then you should at least trust me."
"I do trust you, darling!" I protested quickly. "You surely know that!
You are in possession of all the secrets of our invention, and--"
"Ah! the invention--_the invention_!" she cried and, as she suddenly
recollected it, her whole manner instantly changed.
She started from her chair crying: "Yes--yes! Now I remember! I
remember! It was awful--terrible--ugh! Ah! my poor brain!" and again
she drew her hand across her brow. "My poor head!"
She paused but, next second, she turned to me, exclaiming in a tone
quite unusual to her:
"No! I shall tell you nothing--I shall say nothing! I do not want to
remember--I pray only to forget--yes, to forget all--everything. It is
too horrible! Too cruel!" and I saw that my reference to our secret
apparatus had stirred another chord in her memory--one that caused her
both fierce anger and bitter remorse.
That fact, in itself, revealed to me quite plainly that her tragic
experiences, whatever they might have been, had some curious connexion
with our invention for the destruction of Zeppelins. Thus, arguing with
myself further, I became more than ever convinced that she, in all her
innocence, had fallen defenceless into the unscrupulous grip of the
terrible but relentless Invisible Hand.
Why did she so persistently withhold from me the truth? What more
natural than, knowing the identity of her enemies, she should seek to
denounce and justly punish them? Now she was back at my side she surely
could not fear them!
Certainly her demeanour was most mysterious, and I stood there, facing
her, utterly bewildered. The expression in her dear face was quite
uncanny.
Once again I begged her to tell me something--however slight--regarding
what had occurred to her. I told her of our tireless search; of the
eager hue and cry; of the publication of her portrait, and of the
offered reward for any information.
"Ah!" she replied, with a strange, faint smile, as though of triumph
almost. "All that was to no effect. The precautions taken were far too
complete. Nobody could have found me--for I was in a living grave."
"Yes," I said, hoping that she would reveal to me something more,
however vague. "Tell me about it, darling. Do, Roseye."
"Tell you!" she echoed with angry resentment, putting me from her firmly
and staring at me. "No, never!" Then a second later she turned towards
the curtained window and shrieked:
"Ah! look!--that accursed woman again! Why do you allow her to come
here--if you love me, Claude!"
"She is not here," I declared firmly. "It is all your silly
imagination!"
"She is!" cried my love wildly. "You are lying to me! She's there!
Over there! Kill her--Claude--or she will kill you--ah! _that Woman
with the Leopard's Eyes_!"