CHAPTER XVII
When Canning arrived at Myrtle Cottage after his visit to the priory ruins, he opened the gate as though to pass in; then suddenly shut it again, and retracing his steps down the road, went to the post office, where he sent off a telegram in cypher. That done, he made his way to the village hostel, and sat there till nearly closing time, talking to the rustics.
About ten minutes to ten he took his departure, and went to Shepperton’s rooms. Arthur Shepperton was eating his supper, so he invited the detective to join him, which he did to the extent of a crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale.
Canning was silent for a time, and the young solicitor looked at him curiously, but did not disturb his meditations. At length the detective related what he had experienced an hour or two ago, omitting nothing.
Shepperton listened eagerly, and when he had finished, remarked:
“Well, what do you think now; am I not right?”
But the other shook his head.
“What!” exclaimed his host.
“I don’t know yet; it is a queer case.”
Shepperton looked disappointed, and relapsed into silence. At last he said:
“It is a pity that black villain saw you—he will know you again.”
By way of reply, Canning drew forth his disguise, and putting it on the table, exclaimed:
“I don’t think so.”
“Ah, that’s a good thing,” said Shepperton in a relieved voice. Then he laughed, as he thought of the detective’s ingenuity.
“Has it occurred to you that you were unable to find Miss Hobson’s trail?”
Shepperton eyed him doubtfully as he replied:
“Well, what of it?”
Canning shook his head with a smile, then clearing his throat, remarked:
“It entered my mind to-night, as I was coming back from the priory, that it ought to be possible, with the glove you have in your possession, to find her dead or alive.”
“We did try, as you know.”
“Yes, but you discovered something else, and since then, I understand, no other effort has been made.”
“No, that is true,” said Shepperton. “What have you in your mind?”
“Well, I think we ought to follow it up,” answered Canning.
“Very well, if you think it at all likely, I have no objection. I’m willing to do anything that may help to clear the thing up. What do you propose to do? use Brentwood’s dog again?”
“No,” answered the detective sharply. “I have telegraphed to London for one of my own dogs, and it should be here to-morrow evening, Thursday morning latest.”
Whatever misgiving (if any) Shepperton might have had about the detective, he could not help appreciating the promptness with which he acted, when once he came to a conclusion.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Let it be Thursday morning. I will meet you at the priory at——”
“Nine o’clock,” interjected Canning.
For about half an hour they sat talking, and then, with a yawn, the detective rose, saying:
“I think I will get; I can do with an hour or two’s sleep.”
“Right,” answered his host. “By the way, what do you propose doing to-morrow?”
“Well, I am a little uncertain as yet. Do you want me for anything in particular?”
“No,” said the other indifferently.
“Very well, Mr. Shepperton, I will meet you at nine o’clock, Thursday morning.”
With this remark Canning went, and returning to his rooms, sought his bed. There for a time he lay, thinking that although he had cracked many a hard nut, this one looked like proving to be not only the hardest, but the queerest case he had ever come across.
At half-past nine on the Thursday morning, Shepperton and Canning stood in the ruined priory, looking at each other; the former with a perplexed expression, the latter with a wry smile.
Twice had they given the dog the scent, and twice had he done exactly the same as Hector had done some days ago.
“It is very extraordinary,” said Shepperton, in puzzled tones, “but it seems to me to be right.”
Canning shook his head as he replied:
“It is against all reason, my friend. There must be crossed trails.”
“Well, it beats me,” returned Shepperton; “what do you say?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that it was not his business to let anything beat him. Then moving, he said:
“Come, let us try some other spot.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere round about.” Saying which, Canning started the dog at various points. The other watched him make one or two fruitless efforts, then sat down on a piece of rock in an indifferent manner. He had practically lost hope in the venture. But the detective, in his dogged manner, went quietly about his work, first here, then there, and gradually got further away.
“Seems to me he might as well search for the proverbial needle,” mused Shepperton, and, tired of watching, he turned his attention to the ruins. He may have sat there for five minutes, when he was attracted by a hail from his companion. With a yawn, he rose and sauntered over to him; and at once his interest returned, as he looked at the detective’s face.
“What is it?” he said quickly.
Canning, who was standing about a hundred yards from their original starting-place, beckoned the other to follow him, and together they forced their way through some bushes for a few yards. Here Canning stopped, and pointing to the ground said:
“What do you make of that?”
Shepperton looked eagerly, then shook his head.
“I don’t see anything,” he exclaimed.
“Well,” replied the detective, “there is—or more correctly speaking, was—a path here. If you will look closely, you will just see faint traces of it. Now watch the dog!”
Straining at his leash, the animal made his way through the tangled undergrowth, until they came out upon the path which led to the north entrance. Here they stopped to take breath.
“What do you make of it?” asked Shepperton easily.
“I think we may make a discovery,” answered the other coolly. “Now, let’s get on.”
For fully an hour they made steady progress, the hound leading them along various roads until they came to a brook running across a lane, and here the dog seemed to be baffled. They halted uncertainly; at last the detective said:
“We must cross the water.”
They did so, and to Shepperton’s relief, the dog immediately took up the scent again, and they went on for nearly another hour.
“Are you sure we are not following a will-o’-the-wisp?”
Canning smiled as he replied:
“There is not much fear of that. The dog is following something tangible, you can depend upon it.”
All at once a sharp turning brought them in view of a long, low house which lay back from the main road several yards, and was partly hidden by trees. For this place the dog made a straight course.
Shepperton lifted the latch of the outer gate with nervous fingers, and they passed through into a drive which led to the main entrance.
“What place is this?” queried Canning abruptly.
“It is known as the ‘Châlet,’ and is occupied, I believe, by some refugee nuns from France. Beyond that, I don’t think anybody here could enlighten you.”
“Well, we will soon find out,” replied the detective, whereupon he rang the bell in a business-like manner. A clang somewhere at the rear of the premises followed, and shortly after the door was slowly opened part of the way, by an elderly woman in the garb of a nun. She cast suspicious eyes at the men, and then seeing the dog, quickly pushed the door until it remained open only about six inches. The two inquirers looked at each other, and laughed.
“You had better ask to see the Lady Superior, or whoever is in charge,” suggested the detective. Shepperton nodded his acquiescence, and approaching the door, handed in his card, saying:
“Will you convey my apologies to the Lady Superior, and tell her that I should very much like to see her on a most important matter?”
By way of answer, the woman stretched her arm through the door, gingerly took the bit of ivory, and disappeared. However, they were not left standing long in suspense. She shortly returned and said with a pronounced French accent that her ladyship would see Mr. Shepperton if his business were important. Then she opened the door sufficiently to let him pass through, all the while keeping a nervous eye on the dog, which Canning was holding back by its leash.
She conducted Shepperton to a sort of ante-room, which, though devoid of furniture with the exception of a few plain chairs and a long, low oak chest, was spotlessly clean, while the bare boards were polished to such an extent that he felt some compunction about walking on them with his heavy boots. But he hardly had time to think about that—he had indeed scarcely sat down, when her ladyship appeared, bringing with her a faint suggestion of perfume.
Shepperton rose immediately and bowed. She acknowledged the bow with a gentle inclination of her head, then raising her eyes stood waiting for him to speak. For several moments the man stood in silence. There was something about the woman’s face which made him feel ashamed of his sex. Never before had he seen such a beautifully spiritual countenance.
Barely forty, Héloïse Limonaire, daughter of the Vicomte d’Angiers, still retained some of that physical beauty with which nature had endowed her, and which had in part caused her to take the veil twenty years ago. Time, however, and the strict rules of a convent life had emaciated her figure, though her face had gained in sweetness; and that strange fire, which only comes to those who conquer the flesh, shone with a pure light from her deep brown eyes. Driven from her native country, she had sought a refuge in that land to which all refugees fly, and for two years she had lived quietly in this old country house, which her private means had enabled her to purchase.
“I d—o trust you will excuse this intrusion,” began Shepperton. “The business which brings me here is in connection with the disappearance some weeks ago of Miss Elsie Hobson, from Worlstoke, of which mystery you have no doubt heard?”
Madame Limonaire shook her head as she replied:
“I’m afraid, Monsieur, that I have not heard of it.”
He looked surprised, so she added by way of explanation:
“You see, we have so little to do with the outer world. But if I can assist you in any way, I will do so.”
Her sweet, sympathetic voice encouraged Shepperton, and he rejoined:
“It is very kind of you to offer help, Madame—let me explain:
“Some weeks ago, Miss Hobson, to whom I am engaged—disappeared; and no trace of her could be found. Sometime after that, one of her gloves was found in the old ruined priory of Melsea.”
Héloïse Limonaire nodded encouragingly, so he continued:
“To-day, by the aid of a bloodhound, we have traced her as far as this house, and—” he paused, and gave a short laugh, then went on: “Well, that is all, Madame.”
For some time she looked him fully in the face, and to the man it seemed as if she were reading what was in his mind. Then she gave a sigh, and replied:
“Can Monsieur describe the lady?”
“Oh yes. She is twenty-four years of age, medium height, dark brown hair, brown eyes, dark skin, fairly robust in figure, good teeth rather prominent, one of them missing.”
She nodded again, and after a pause remarked:
“Have you strong nerves, Monsieur?”
He looked at her a little surprisedly, as he replied:
“Well, I think they are pretty sound. Why?”
“Will you please come with me?”
He followed her out of the room, down the hall into another chamber. There, she beckoned him to a large French window, which looked out on a grand old lawn.
“Look!” she said.
The next moment he gave a cry, his face went white, and he clutched desperately at the casement for support. He could hardly believe his eyes, and for a space stood looking bewilderedly at the figure of Elsie Hobson, seated in a chair on the lawn.
“Is it true?” he asked mechanically.
Héloïse Limonaire’s eyes were moist, as she answered compassionately:
“Yes, Monsieur, it is true. Sit down and I will tell you all about it.”
Shepperton sank into a chair, and she began:
“On the night of the 4th of April, about ten o’clock, I felt compelled to go to the main entrance of the house. Such impressions never mislead me, and through them I have several times been able to succour people in distress. This was no exception; I had hardly opened the door, when a low moan, almost at my feet, drew my attention. Lying on the steps in an exhausted condition was a young woman. I immediately called assistance, and we got her into the house. She seemed, poor child, almost demented with terror, and kept on crying out to us to save her, while she continually put her hands to her throat, around which was a little gold cross suspended on a chain of the same material. Well, toward dawn the next morning she suddenly passed into a coma or trance, and remained so for over five weeks, until four days ago, when she as suddenly awoke. But, Monsieur, I am afraid she has lost her memory”—then added quickly, as she saw his colour go: “Of course that may only be a temporary matter.”
“I hardly know how to thank you for what you have done,” he said in a strained voice.
“No thanks are needed, Monsieur, except to Him who has the direction of all things. I have only done my duty. Wait, and I will fetch Miss ——”
“Hobson,” said Shepperton, filling in the name.
The Lady Superior opened the window, and the man watched her cross the lawn to where Elsie sat, and take her arm.
In a few minutes they had returned, and Shepperton’s pulse quickened as he stepped forward and took his fiancée’s hand.
“Elsie, don’t you know me?”
She looked at him strangely, and smiling pathetically, turned to Madame Limonaire, as though for an explanation.
“The gentleman has called to see you, my child. He says he knows you; don’t you recognise him?”
“No!” she answered, with a perplexed look. “I don’t think I have met him before.”
His heart sank; she did not know him; but after all she was alive, and there was hope. His spirits revived somewhat, as the brighter side of things presented itself to his mind.
“Well, with your permission, Madame, I will depart for the present, and if I may impose upon your goodness for a little longer, perhaps you will care for Miss Hobson until I can make suitable arrangements for her to be fetched.”
“By all means let her stay here as long as you wish.”
Shepperton thanked her, then added:
“I think I will consult Miss Alletson, the Vicar of Worlstoke’s sister, who is a friend of mine. I don’t doubt that she will be willing to fetch Miss Hobson, when we have broken the news to her parents.”
When Shepperton got outside, Canning was sitting on the steps smoking. He at once noticed by the other man’s face that something extraordinary had happened. However, he did not speak, but waited for Shepperton to explain.
“She is there!” he said in a low voice, pointing to the house.
“Good,” answered the detective coolly.
“Come,” said Shepperton; “we can do nothing more at present.”
As they walked along, he related what had taken place. Canning listened without interrupting, until he had finished. Then he said cheerfully:
“Well, Mr. Shepperton, you must hope for the best; it will not be the first case of the kind that has been cured, by any means.”
“I hope not,” was the spiritless reply.
They walked in silence for a long time, and then the detective remarked:
“It’s a good job I sent for the dog, eh?”
“Yes; but for that, goodness only knows when we should have found her. I am grateful, Mr. Canning, for your help.”
“Ah,” he answered reflectively, “and now we have got to lay hold of the criminal, which I don’t think will be so easy!”
“Don’t you really think so?” rejoined the other, in surprised tones.
“No; there is something in this case which even I don’t understand, with all my experience.”