THE STEPS OF THE STRANGER
We alighted at York, with just sufficient time to spare to allow us to
catch the up dining-car express from Edinburgh to London.
As he got out of the compartment Stonor glanced at his watch and looked
up and down the platform as though in search of someone. The passengers
for London, urged on by the porters, rushed up to the further end of
the platform. There the London express was waiting; but not so Stonor,
for he turned into the Station Hotel quite leisurely after leaving his
bag in charge of a porter.
To follow him there was too risky. Therefore I left the station by
passing through the booking-office, and entered the hotel from the
street a few minutes later.
I found him seated at one of the small tables in the hall, ordering a
whisky and soda. It was evident that on the way from Scarborough he
had changed his mind as regards his destination, and was now awaiting
another train going in an opposite direction.
For half an hour he idled, smoking many cigarettes; then at last he
rose and went out again upon the platform and bought another ticket.
Passing across the bridge to the other side of the huge station he
entered a train, where the collector quickly clipped the ticket. From
the official I learned the destination to be Manchester, and instantly
rushed and bought a third-class ticket for that city.
Hardly had I entered the train when it moved slowly out of the station,
and from that time till eleven o'clock that night, when I alighted
again, the hours passed uneventfully.
As soon as I fixed his destination I intended to wire to Whitlock, but
up to the present he appeared to be endeavouring to cover his tracks.
He went to the Midland Grand Hotel, that place which is always so full
of bustle and movement, but did not engage a room. On the contrary
he had some supper, smoked for an hour in the lounge, chatted to two
men with whom he was apparently well acquainted, and at three o'clock
next morning left Manchester again, with a ticket for Peterborough.
Soon after seven we were at the latter station and he got out, still
in entire ignorance that he was being followed. His appearance was
now considerably altered, I noticed, for during the journey down from
Manchester he had shaved off his moustache, and appeared to have deep
lines upon his countenance that I had not hitherto noticed.
That he was an adept in effacing himself was shown by this. Indeed,
he had changed his clothes during the journey, and when he stepped
from his first-class compartment I confess that, at first, I did not
recognise him, for he presented the appearance of being at least twenty
years older.
In the booking-office he purchased still another ticket, and from the
telegraph-office despatched a wire. As regards the latter, not being a
detective, I could not ascertain its address, but the ticket I found
was to Cromer, on the Norfolk coast.
There was nearly an hour to wait for the train; therefore he sauntered
across to the Great Northern Hotel for breakfast, while I took mine at
the refreshment-bar of the station.
My one great fear was lest he might see and recognise me. Up to the
present I had succeeded in passing unnoticed. Indeed, I had not shown
myself more than absolutely necessary, and flattered myself that my
efforts at surveillance had, up to the present, been crowned with
success. Why was this man going to Cromer? I wondered. It was certainly
not a port from which he might get away to the Continent. Had he been
going to Yarmouth or Lowestoft I should have suspected his intention
was to get away on board a fishing smack to the Dutch coast.
Again, what object had he in taking that flying visit to Manchester? It
was true that in the Winter Garden he had met two well-dressed men with
whom he had held a long conversation, evidently upon some matter of
importance, for all three had spoken very seriously together.
But I was not at all sure that he had gone to Manchester to meet those
men, for he seemed to discover them quite casually. The fact of taking
a ticket to King's Cross from Scarborough showed his intention to
mislead anyone watching or making inquiries regarding him, and he was
now bound for Cromer, where, perhaps, he intended to lie low for the
present.
The journey from Peterborough to Cromer is a rather slow and tiresome
one, but by noon Stonor was comfortably settled in the Hôtel de Paris,
which, standing on the cliff above the pier, commands a good view of
the town and the country in the vicinity. The hotel was not large,
therefore I decided not to risk anything by putting up there. So I took
a room in another and less pretentious hotel behind the church, but
still kept a vigilant watch upon all the man's actions.
At the Paris I found later that afternoon that he had given the name
of Ridgman and his address at Stockton-on-Tees. He evidently meant to
remain there at least for another day; therefore I succeeded, after an
hour of patient trial, in getting on to Whitlock by telephone to his
own house.
When I told my friend where I was he gave vent to an ejaculation of
surprise, and when I explained where Stonor was, and the name under
which he was living, he said--
"You remain where you are, Keene. I've made it all right at the
_Herald_ office. I'll leave by the seven o'clock from King's Cross, and
bring down a man with me. I expect I'll be with you by midnight. What's
your address?"
I told him, and he wrote it down.
"Right you are. Be watchful. He's a wary bird, so mind you're not
spotted. We've found out a bit more. Kennedy's been busy."
"What further do you know?"
"I'll tell you when we meet. I never care about telling tales over the
'phone," he laughed. "Good-bye," and he rang off.
I idled about quaint, old-world Cromer the whole afternoon, but saw
nothing further of the fugitive. In the square around the church, which
is the natural centre of the place, I whiled away the time looking into
the several shop-windows, not daring to pass either the front or the
back of the Hôtel de Paris lest I should attract his attention unduly.
With the blaze of the sundown landward, a bright, blood-red glare
shedding over the grey North Sea, I descended the cliff to the
esplanade and sat for a long time near the pier lost in my own bitter
reflections. One thought, one sad memory arose within me always: that
of my sweet-faced love now lost to me.
Kennedy had discovered some further facts! What could they be? I was
impatient for Whitlock's return, to learn the latest phase of this
complicated and astounding affair. So many people seemed to be in
some way or other implicated in that midnight tragedy at Barnes that
I failed to grasp any other clue than the one we were now so actively
following.
Whitlock, however, seemed to be directing inquiries in various other
directions, and also appeared to entertain a strong suspicion of the
girl I loved. He was prejudiced against her--prejudiced by something
that had been told him. His very words betrayed what was at the back
of his active mind. The whole problem was an incomprehensible one, yet
our visit to Scarborough had certainly been fruitful. We at least now
knew the name of the dead girl, Louise Lorimer, and it was her past
that Kennedy and Whitlock were now engaged in tracing. The past of a
murdered person will generally show the motive of the crime, and point
to the identity of the assassin.
The grey waves, tipped with the crimson light of the dying day, slowly
lapped the shingly beach. What, I wondered, would be the end of it all?
What had Kennedy discovered?
Dozens of times I reflected whether it would be judicious to reveal to
Whitlock the secret of my love for Daisy--whether knowledge of it would
further our inquiries. But I always decided against such a course.
She had, because of that man Drayton, forsaken me. Therefore I would
conceal my own heavy burden of sorrow.
I did not blame her entirely. My enemy was the man who had uttered some
vile lies concerning me.
Why was she so antagonistic towards Julian Little? Why, indeed, had
Whitlock's attitude been so curious on that evening when he had called
at Gray's Inn and I had introduced them? I often reflected upon that
incident, and the more I did so the more puzzling it became.
Daisy's hard words at parting rang ever in my ears. Should I ever see
her again save behind the footlights, in that environment of tinsel
and pasteboard which seemed always so ill-suited to her sweet and
modest demeanour? Daisy Marvin, the idol of audiences at the Oxford,
the Pavilion, the Holborn Empire, and many of the outlying "halls,"
became gay and reckless when the curtain rang up for her "turn," but
the instant she came off she was the same quiet-mannered, sweet-faced,
charming girl that I knew so intimately, and who I had vainly believed
would be mine for ever.
Her pretty face, smart figure, musical voice, and reckless dancing had
already endeared her to half London, and she had only recently had
tempting offers to go to New York and Chicago. But Mrs Marvin would not
hear of it, therefore a three-year contract with the Tivoli had been
entered into instead, and by that she could with justification call
herself a "star" of her profession.
Most variety artistes, as well as the ladies in musical comedy who call
themselves actresses, have a male admirer lurking somewhere. As far as
Daisy Marvin was concerned I had foolishly imagined myself alone, until
the discovery of that man with whom she had visited the Gambrinus and
afterwards gone to Barnes--the man Francis Drayton.
The last rays of the blazing afterglow had faded and the sea had grown
cold, grey, and mysterious. A chill wind had sprung up with the close
of the day, therefore I rose and walked slowly to the end of the
promenade, and afterwards reascended the cliff to the town.
Few people were about, for it was the dinner-hour of the visitors.
Indeed, from where I had been walking I had heard the gong of the
Hôtel de Paris just above, and it reminded me that I myself had hardly
touched food that day. I had existed in such a whirl of excitement that
I had forgotten all about luncheon.
While walking to my hotel across the square, in which stands the old
square-towered church--a prominent landmark to mariners in the North
Sea--I saw before me a familiar figure in a dark tweed suit. It was
Stonor. He had changed both clothes and hat. Instead of a black bowler
he wore a dark-brown soft felt, and carried in his hand a light cane.
During my absence on the promenade below he seemed to have purchased a
new wardrobe and had got into it.
Undetected by him, I followed and saw him cross to the post-office.
Peering within, as I passed, I saw that he was writing a telegram. I
looked at my watch and noted that the hour was 7.11. When Whitlock came
I would report this, and no doubt he would go to the postmaster and
obtain sight of the message.
After despatching it, he posted two letters which he took from his
pocket, and then retraced his steps leisurely to the hotel. It was
evident that he was not yet contemplating another such a journey as he
had just accomplished; therefore, I went at once to my dinner, having
first ascertained that Whitlock was due to arrive at 11.39.
And I awaited that hour with all impatience.