Sylvia laughed. “You’d better not talk about copies,” said she. “My aunt has only acquired her treasure lately, and she is as proud of it as a peacock; aren’t you, dear?”
“The sensations of a peacock,” replied Miss Vyne, “are unknown to me. I am very gratified at possessing the ornament.”
“Gratified indeed!” said Sylvia. “I consider such vanity most unsuitable to a person of your age. But they are very charming, and there is quite a little story attached to them. My father and a cousin of his—”
“By marriage,” interposed Miss Vyne.
“You needn’t insist on that,” said Sylvia, “as if poor old Vitalis were a person to be ashamed of. Well, my father and this cousin were at a Jesuit school in Belgium—at Louvain, in fact—and among the teachers in the school was an Italian Jesuit named Giglioli. Now the respected Giggley—”
“—oli,” interposed Miss Vyne in a severe voice.
“—oli,” continued Sylvia, “had formerly been a goldsmith; and the Father Superior, with that keen eye to the main chance which you may have noticed among professed religious, furnished him with a little workshop and employed him in making monstrances, thuribles and church plate in general. It was he who made these two crucifixes; and, with the Father Superior’s consent, he gave one to my father and the other to the cousin as parting gifts on their leaving school. As the boys were inseparable friends, the two crucifixes were made absolute duplicates of one another, with the single exception that each had the owner’s name engraved on the back. When my poor father died his crucifix became mine, and a short time ago, his cousin—who is now getting an old man—took a fancy that he would like the two crucifixes to be together once more and gave his to my aunt. So here they are, after all these years, under one roof again.”
As she finished speaking, she detached the crucifix from her neck and, having given it to me to examine, proceeded to remove its fellow from the neck of the elder lady—who not only submitted quite passively but seemed to be unaware of the transaction—and handed that to me also.
I laid them side by side in my palm and compared them, but could not detect the slightest difference between them. They were complete duplicates. Each was a Latin cross with trefoiled extremities, wrought from a single piece of gold and enriched with champlevé enamel. The body of the cross was filled with a ground of deep, translucent blue, from which the figure stood out in rather low relief, and the space between each of the trefoils was occupied by a single Greek letter—Iota and Chi at the top and bottom respectively, and at the ends of the horizontal arm Alpha and Omega. On turning them over, I saw that the back of each bore an engraved inscription carried across the horizontal arm, that on Sylvia’s reading: “A.M. Robertus, D.G.,” while that on the other read: “A.M. Vitalis, D.G.”
“They are very charming little things,” I said, as I returned them to Sylvia; “and it was a pretty idea of the old Jesuit to make them both alike for the two friends. I suppose he didn’t make any more of them for his other pupils?”
“What makes you ask that?” demanded Sylvia.
“I am thinking of that man in the lane. He must have had some reason for claiming the crucifix as his, one would think; and as these are quite unlike any ordinary commercial jewellery, the suggestion is that the worthy Giglioli was tempted to repeat his successes. What do you think?”
“I think,” said Miss Vyne, “that the suggestion is inadmissable. Father Giglioli was an artist, and an artist does not repeat himself.”
“I am inclined to agree with my aunt,” said Sylvia. “An artist does not care to repeat a design, excepting for a definite purpose, as in the case of these duplicates; especially when the thing designed is intended as a gift.”
To this I gave a somewhat qualified assent, though I found the argument far from convincing; and, as I had made a very long visitation, especially for a first call, I now rose to depart.
“I hope I may be allowed to come and see you again,” I ventured to say as Miss Vyne raised a sort of semaphore arm to my extended hand.
“I see no reason why you should not,” she replied judicially. “You seem to be a well-disposed young man, though indiscreet. Good-afternoon.”
I bowed deferentially and then, to my gratification, was escorted as far as the garden gate by Sylvia; who evidently wished to gather my impressions of her relative, for, as she let me out, she asked with a mischievous smile:
“What do you think of my aunt, Dr. Jardine?”
“She is rather a terrifying old lady,” I replied.
Sylvia giggled delightedly. “She does look an awful old griffin, doesn’t she? But it’s all nonsense, you know. She is really a dear old thing, and as soft as butter.”
“Well,” I said, “she conceals the fact most perfectly.”
“She does. She is a most complete impostor. I’ll tell you a secret, Dr. Jardine,” Sylvia added in a mysterious whisper, as we shook hands over the gate; “she trades on her nose. I’ve told her so. Her nose is her fortune, and she plays it for all it’s worth. Good-bye—or rather, au revoir! for you’ve promised to come and see us again.”
With a bright little nod she turned and ran up the garden path, still chuckling softly at her joke; and I wended homewards, very well pleased with the circumstances of my visit, despite the soul-shaking incidents with which it had opened.
On the following morning I betook myself to the hospital intending to call later in the day at Dr. Thorndyke’s chambers; but that visit turned out to be unnecessary, for, as I ran my eye over the names on the attendance board in the entrance hall, I saw that Thorndyke was in the building, although it was not the day on which he lectured. I found him, as I had expected, in the museum and was greeted with a hearty grip of the hand and a welcome, the warmth of which gratified me exceedingly.
“Well, Jardine,” he said, “you’ve given us all a pretty fine shake-up. I have never been more relieved in my life than I was when my man Polton gave me your note. But you seem to have had another fairly close shave. What a fellow you are, to be sure! You seem to be as tenacious of life as the proverbial cat.”
“So that little archbishop is your man Polton, is he?”
“Yes; and a most remarkable man, Jardine, and simply invaluable to me, though he ought to be in a very different position. But I think he is quite happy with me—especially now that he has got your watch to experiment on. You will see that watch again some day, when he has rated it to half a second. And meanwhile let us go into the curator’s room and re-constitute your adventures.”
The curator’s room was empty at the moment; empty, that is to say, so far as human denizens were concerned. Otherwise it was decidedly full; the usual wilderness of glass jars, sepulchral slate tanks, bones in all stages of preparation and unfinished specimens, being supplemented by that all-pervading, unforgettable odour peculiar to curator’s rooms, compounded of alcohol and mortality, and suggesting a necropolis for deceased dipsomaniacs. Thorndyke seated himself on a well-polished stool by the work-bench, and, motioning me to another, bade me speak on. Which I did in exhaustive detail; giving him a minute history of my experiences from the time of my parting from Sylvia to the present moment, not omitting my encounter with Mrs. Samway and the clerical gentleman in the train.
He listened to my narrative in his usual silent, attentive fashion, making no comments and asking no questions until I had finished; when he cross-examined me on one or two points of detail.
“With regard to Mrs. Samway,” he asked; “did you gather that she was crossing by the Boulogne boat?”
“I inferred that she was, but she said nothing on the subject.”
He nodded and then asked: “Do I understand that you never saw your assailant at all?”
“I never got the slightest glimpse of him; in fact I could not say whether the person who attacked me was a man or a woman excepting that the obvious strength and the method of attack suggest a man.”
To this he made no reply, but sat awhile absorbed in thought. It was evident that he was deeply interested in the affair, not only on my account but by reason of the curious problems that it offered for solution. Indeed, his next remark was to this effect.
“It is a most singular case, Jardine,” he said. “So much of it is perfectly clear, and yet so much more is unfathomable mystery. But just now, the speculative interest is overshadowed by the personal. I am rather doubtful as to what we ought to do. It almost looks as if you ought not to be at large.”
“I hope, sir, you don’t suggest shutting me up,” I exclaimed with a grin.
“That was in my mind,” he answered. “You are evidently in considerable danger, and you are not as cautious as you ought to be.”
“I shall be mighty cautious after this experience,” I rejoined; “and you have yourself implied that I have nine lives.”
“Even so,” he retorted, “you have played away a third of them pretty rapidly. If you are not more careful of the other six, I shall have to put you somewhere out of harm’s way. Do, for goodness’ sake, Jardine, keep away from unpopulated places and see that no stranger gets near enough to have you at a disadvantage.”
I promised him to keep a constant watch for suspicious strangers and to avoid all solitary neighbourhoods and ill-lighted thoroughfares, and shortly after this we separated to go our respective ways, he back to the museum and I to the surgical wards.
For some time after this, the record of my daily life furnishes nothing but a chronicle of small beer. I had resumed pretty regular attendance at the hospital, setting forth from my lodgings in the morning and returning thither as the late afternoon merged into evening; taking the necessary exercise in the form of the long walk to and from the hospital, and keeping close indoors at night. It began to look as though my adventures were at an end and life were settling down to the old familiar jog trot.
And yet the beer was not quite so small as it looked. Coming events cast their shadows before them, but often enough those shadows wear a shape ill-defined and vague, and so creep on unnoticed. Thus it was in these days of apparent inaction, though even then there were certain little happenings at which I looked askance. Such an episode occurred within a few days of my return, and gave me considerable food for thought. I had climbed on to the yellow ’bus in the Tottenham Court Road and was seated on the top, smoking my pipe, when, as we passed up the Hampstead Road, I noticed a woman looking into the window of Mr. Robinson, the artist’s-colourman. Something familiar or distinctive in the pose of the figure made me glance a second time; and then I think my eyes must have grown more and more round with astonishment as the ’bus gradually drew me out of range. For the woman was undoubtedly Mrs. Samway.
It was really a most surprising affair. This good lady seemed to be ubiquitous; to fly hither and thither and drop from the clouds as if she were the possessor of a magic carpet. Apparently she had not gone to Boulogne after all; or if she had, her stay on the Continent must have been uncommonly short. But if she had not crossed on the boat, what was she doing in Folkestone? It was all very well to say that she had as much right to be in Folkestone as I had. That was true enough, but it was a lame conclusion and no explanation at all.
It was my custom, as I have said, to walk from my lodgings to the hospital, a distance of some five miles; but this was practicable only in fine weather. On wet days I took the tram from the “Duke of St. Alban’s”; and beguiled the slow journey by reading one of my text-books and observing the manners and customs of my fellow-passengers. Such a day was the one that followed the re-appearance of Mrs. Samway. A persistent drizzle put my morning walk out of the question and sent me reluctant but resigned to seek the shelter of the tram, where having settled myself with a volume of Gould’s “Surgical Diagnosis,” I began to read to the accompaniment of the monotonous rhythm of the horses’ hoofs and the sleepy jingle of their bells. From time to time I looked up from my book to take a glance at the other occupants of the steamy interior, and on each occasion that I did so, I caught the eye of my opposite neighbour roving over my person as if taking an inventory of my apparel. Whenever he caught my eye, he immediately looked away; but the next time I glanced up I was sure to find him once more engaged in a leisurely examination of me.
There was nothing remarkable in this. People who sit opposite in a public vehicle unconsciously regard one another, as I was doing myself; but when I had met my neighbour’s eye a dozen times or more, I began to grow annoyed at his persistent inspection; and finally, shutting up my book, proceeded to retaliate in kind.
This seemed to embarrass him considerably. Avoiding my steady gaze, his eyes flitted to and fro, passing restlessly from one part of the vehicle to another; and then it was that my medical eye noted a fact that gave an intrinsic interest to the inspection. The man had what is called a nystagmus; that is, a peculiar oscillatory movement of the eyeball. As his eyes passed quickly from object to object, they did not both come to rest instantaneously, but the right eye stopped with a sort of vertical stagger as if the bearings were loose. The condition is not a very common one, and the one-sided variety is decidedly rare. It is usually associated with some defect of vision or habitual strain of the eye-muscles, as in miners’ nystagmus; whence my discovery naturally led to a further survey and speculation as to the cause of the condition in the present case.
The man was obviously not a miner. His hands—with a cigarette stain, as I noticed, on the left middle finger—were much too delicate, and he had not in any way the appearance of a labourer. Then the spasm must be due to some defect of eyesight. Yet he was not near-sighted, for, as we passed a church at some distance, I saw him glance out through the doorway at the clock and compare it with his watch; and again, I noticed that he took out his watch with his left hand. Then perhaps he had a blind eye or unequal vision in the two eyes; this seemed the most likely explanation; and I had hardly proposed it to myself when the chance was given to me to verify it. Confused by my persistent examination of him, my unwilling patient suddenly produced a newspaper from his pocket and, clapping a pair of pince-nez on his nose, began to read. Those pince-nez gave me the required information, for I could see that one glass was strongly convex while the other was nearly plane.
The question of my friend’s eyesight being disposed of, I began to debate the significance of that stain of the left middle finger. Was he left-handed? It did not follow, though it seemed likely; and then I found myself noting the manner in which he held his paper, until, becoming suddenly conscious of the absurdity of the whole affair, I impatiently picked up my book and reverted to the diagnosis of renal calculus. I was becoming, I reflected disparagingly, as inquisitive as Thorndyke himself; from whom I seemed to have caught some infection that impelled me thus to concern myself with the trifling peculiarities of total strangers.
The trivial incident would probably have faded from my recollection but for another, equally trivial, which occurred a day or two later. I was returning home by way of Tottenham Court Road and had nearly reached the crossing at the north end when I suddenly remembered that I had come to the last of my note-books. The shop at which I obtained them was in Gower Street, hard by, and as the thought of the books occurred to me, I turned abruptly and, running across the road, strode quickly down a by-street that led to the shop.
As I came out into Gower Street I noticed a small, but rapidly augmenting crowd on the pavement, and, elbowing my way through, found at its centre a man lying on the ground, writhing in the convulsions of an epileptic fit. I proceeded to ward off the well-meant attentions of the usual excited bystanders, who were pulling open his hands and trying to sit him up, and had thrust the corner of a folded newspaper between his teeth to prevent him from biting his tongue when a constable arrived on the scene; upon which, as the officer bore on his sleeve the badge of the St. John’s Ambulance Society, I gave him a few directions and began to back out of the crowd.
At this moment, I became aware of a pressure behind me and a suspicious fumbling, strongly suggestive of the presence of a pick-pocket. Instantly, I turned to the right about and directed a searching look at the people behind me, and especially at a bearded, nondescript person who seemed also to be backing out of the crowd. He gave me a single, quick glance as I followed him through the press and then averted his eyes; and as he did so, I noticed, with something of a start, that his right eye came to rest with a peculiar, rapid up-and-down shake. He had, in fact, a right-sided nystagmus.
The coincidence naturally struck me with some force. A nystagmus is not, as I have said, a very common condition; one-sided nystagmus is actually a rare one; and, of the one-sided instances, only some fifty per cent. will affect the right eye. The coincidence was therefore quite a notable one; but had it any particular bearing? I had a half-formed inclination to follow the man; but he had not actually picked my pocket or done any other overt act, and one could hardly follow a person merely because he happened to suffer from an uncommon nervous affection.
The man was now walking up the street, briskly, but without manifest hurry; looking straight before him and swinging his stick with something of a flourish. I watched him speculatively, as I walked in the same direction, and then suddenly realized that he was carrying his stick in his left hand, and carrying it, too, with the unmistakable ease born of habit. Then he was left-handed! And here was another coincidence; not a remarkable one in itself, but, when added to the other, so singular and striking that I insensibly quickened my pace.
As my acquaintance reached the corner of the Euston Road, an omnibus stopped to put down a passenger. It was about to move on when he raised his stick, and, following it, stepped on the footboard and mounted to the roof. I was undecided what to do. Should I follow him? And, if so, to what purpose? He would certainly notice me if I did and be on his guard, so that I should probably have my trouble for nothing and possibly look like a fool into the bargain. And while I was thus standing irresolute at the corner, the omnibus rumbled away westward and decided the question for me.
I am not, as the reader may have gathered, a particularly cautious man or much given to suspicion. But recent events had made me a good deal more wary and had taught me to look with less charity on chance fellow creatures; and this left-handed person with the nystagmus occupied my thoughts to no small extent during the next day or two. Was he the man whom I had seen in the tram? Apparently not. The latter had been clean shaven and dressed neatly in the style of a clerk or ordinary City man, whereas the former wore a full beard and was shabby, almost beyond the verge of respectability. As to their respective statures, I could not judge, as I had seen the one man seated and the other standing; but, superficially, they were not at all alike, and, in all probability they were different persons.
But this conclusion was not at all inevitable. When I reflected on the matter, I saw that the resemblances and differences did not balance. The two men resembled one another in qualities that were inherent and unalterable, but they differed in qualities that were superficial and subject to change. A man cannot assume or cast off a nystagmus, but he can put on a false beard. A left-handed man may endeavour to conceal his peculiarity, but the superior deftness of the habitually used hand will make itself apparent in spite of his efforts; whereas he can make any alterations in his clothing that he pleases. And thus reflecting, the suspicion grew more and more strong that the two men might very well have been one and the same person, and that it would be discreet to keep a bright look-out for a left-handed man with a right-sided nystagmus.
During all this time I had seen nothing of my new friend Miss Sylvia. But I had by no means forgotten her. Without wishing to exaggerate my feelings, I may say that I had taken a strong liking to that very engaging young lady. She was a pleasant, easy-mannered girl, evidently good-tempered, and very frank and simple; a girl—as Mr. Sparkler would have said—“with no bigod nonsense about her.” Her tastes ran along very similar lines to my own, and she was clever enough to be a quite interesting companion. Then it was evident that she liked me—which was in itself an attraction, to say nothing of the credit that it reflected on her taste—and, in a perfectly modest way, she had made no secret of the fact. And finally, she was exceptionally good-looking. Now people may say, as they do, that beauty is only skin deep—which is perfectly untrue, by the way; but even so, one is more concerned with the skins of one’s fellow creatures than with their livers or vermiform appendices. The contact of persons, as of things, occurs at their respective surfaces.
From which it will be gathered that I was only allowing a decent interval to elapse before repeating my visit to “The Hawthorns”; indeed, I was beginning to think that a sufficient interval had already passed and to contemplate seriously my second call, when my intentions were forestalled by Sylvia herself. Returning home one Friday evening, I found on my mantelpiece a short letter from her, enclosing a ticket for an exhibition of paintings and sculpture at a gallery in Leicester Square, and mentioning—incidentally—that she proposed to visit the show on the following morning in order to see the works by a good light; which seemed such an eminently rational proceeding in these short winter days, that I determined instantly to follow her example and get the advantage of the morning light myself.
I acted on this decision with such thoroughness that, when I arrived at the gallery, I found the attendant in the act of opening the doors, and, for nearly half an hour I was in sole possession of the premises. Then, by twos and threes, other visitors began to straggle in, and among them Sylvia, looking very fresh and dainty and obviously pleased to see me.
“I am glad you were able to come,” she said, as we shook hands. “I thought you would, somehow. It is so much nicer to have someone to talk over the pictures with, isn’t it?”
“Much more interesting,” I agreed. “I have been taking a preliminary look round and have already accumulated quite a lot of profound observations to discharge at you as occasion offers. Shall we begin at number one?”
We began at number one and worked our way methodically picture by picture, round the room, considering each work attentively with earnest discussion and a wealth of comment. As the morning wore on, visitors arrived in increasing numbers, until the two large rooms began to be somewhat inconveniently crowded. We had made a complete circuit of the pictures and were about to turn to the sculpture, which occupied the central floor space, when Sylvia touched me on the arm.
“Let us sit down for a minute,” said she. “I want to speak to you.”
I led her to one of the large settees that disputed the floor-space with the busts and statuettes, and, somewhat mystified by her serious tone and by the rather agitated manner, which I now noticed for the first time, seated myself by her side.
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked anxiously round the room, and, leaning towards me, said in a low tone:
“Have you noticed a man who has been keeping near us and listening to our conversation?”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied. “If I had I would have given him a hint to keep farther off. But there’s nothing in it, you know. In picture galleries it is very usual for people to hang about and try to overhear criticisms. This man may be interested in the exhibits.”
“Yes, I know. But I don’t think this person was so much interested in the exhibits. He didn’t look at the pictures, he looked at us. I caught his eye several times reflected in the picture-glasses, and once or twice I saw him looking most attentively at this crucifix of mine. That was what really disturbed me. I wish, now, that I hadn’t unbuttoned my coat.”
“So do I. You will have to leave that crucifix at home if it attracts so much undesirable attention. Which is the man? Is he in this room?”
“No, I don’t see him now. I expect he has gone into the next room.”
“Then let us go there, too; and if you will point him out to me, I will pay him back in his own coin.”
We rose and made our way to the door of communication, and, as we passed into the second room, Sylvia grasped my arm nervously.
“There he is—don’t let him see us looking at him—he is sitting on the settee at the farther end of the room.”
It was impossible to make a mistake since the settee held only a single person; a fairly well-dressed, ordinary-looking man, rather swarthy and foreign in appearance, with a small waxed moustache. He was sitting nearly opposite the entrance door and seemed, at the moment, to be reading over the catalogue, which he held open on his knee; but, as he looked up almost at the moment when we entered, I turned my back to him and continued my inspection with the aid of the reflection in a picture-glass.
“He is probably a journalist,” I said. “You see he is scribbling some notes on the blank leaves of his catalogue; probably some of your profound criticisms, which will appear, perhaps to-morrow morning, clothed in super-technical jargon, in a daily paper.”
Here I paused suddenly, for I had made a rather curious observation. The reflection in a mirror is, as everybody knows, reversed laterally; so that the right hand of a person appears to be the left, and vice versa. But in the present case, no reversal seemed to have taken place. The figure in the reflection was writing with his right hand. Obviously, then, the real person was writing with his left.
This put a rather different aspect on the affair. Up to the present, I had been disposed to think that Sylvia had been unduly disturbed; for there are plenty of ill-bred bounders to be met in any public place who will stare a good-looking girl out of countenance. But now my suspicions were all awake. It is true that left-handed men are as common as blackberries; but still—
“Can you tell me, Miss Vyne,” I asked, as we worked our way towards the other end of the room, “if this man is at all like the one who frightened you so in Millfield Lane?”
“No, he is not. I am sure of that. The man in the lane was a good deal taller and thinner.”
“Well,” said I, “whoever he is, I want to have a good look at him, and the best plan will be to turn our attention to the sculpture. Shall we go and look at that rather remarkable pink bust? That will give our friend a chance of another stare at you, and, if he doesn’t take it, I will go and inspect him where he sits.”
The bust to which I had referred was executed in a curious rose-tinted marble, very crystalline and translucent, a material that suited the soft, girlish features of its subject admirably. It stood on an isolated pedestal quite near the settee on which the suspicious stranger was sitting, and I hoped that our presence might lure him from his retreat.
“I don’t think,” I said, taking up a position with my back to the settee, “that I have ever seen any marble quite like this. Have you?”
“No,” replied Sylvia. “It looks like coarse lump sugar stained pink. And how very transparent it is; too transparent for most subjects.”
Here she gave a quick, nervous glance at me, and I was aware of a shadow thrown by some person standing behind me. Had our friend risen to the bait already? I continued the conversation in good audible tones.
“Very awkward these isolated pedestals would be for slovenly artists who scamp the back of their work.”
With this remark I moved round the pedestal as if to examine the back of the bust, and Sylvia followed. The move brought us opposite the person who had been standing behind me; and, sure enough, it was the gentleman from the settee. I continued to talk—rather blatantly, I fear—commenting on the careful treatment of the hair and the backs of the ears; and meanwhile took an occasional swift glance at the man opposite. He appeared to be gazing in wrapt admiration at the bust, but his glance, too, occasionally wandered; and when it did, the “point of fixation,” as the oculists would express it, was Sylvia’s crucifix, which was still uncovered.
Presently I ventured to take a good, steady look at him and was for a few moments unobserved. His left eye moved, as I could see, quite smoothly and evenly from point to point; but the right, at each change of position, gave a little, rapid, vertical oscillation. Suddenly he became aware of my, now undisguised, inspection of him, and, immediately, the oscillation became much more marked, as is often the case with these spasmodic movements. Perhaps he was conscious of the fact; at any rate, he turned his head away and then moved off to examine a statuette that stood near the middle of the room.
I looked after him, wondering what I ought to do. That he was the man whom I had seen on the two previous occasions I had not the slightest doubt, although I was still unable to identify his features or anything about him excepting the nystagmus and the left-handed condition. But there could be no question that he was the same man; and this very variability in his appearance only gave a more sinister significance to the affair, pointing clearly, as it did, to careful and efficient disguise. Evidently he had been, and still was, shadowing me, and, what was still worse, he seemed to be taking a most undesirable interest in Sylvia. And yet what could I do? My small knowledge of the law suggested that shadowing was not a criminal act unless some unlawful intent could be proved. As to punching the fellow’s head—which was what I felt most inclined to do—that would merely give rise to disagreeable, and perhaps dangerous, publicity.
“My lord is pleased to meditate,” Sylvia remarked at length, breaking in upon my brown study.
“I beg your pardon,” I exclaimed. “The fact is I was wondering what we had better do next. Do you want to see anything else?”
“I should rather like to see the outside of the building,” she answered. “That man has made me quite nervous.”
“Then we will go at once, and we won’t sign the visitor’s book.”
I led her to the door, and, as we rapidly descended the carpeted stairs, I considered once more what it were best to do. Had I been alone I would have kept our watcher in view and done a little shadowing on my own account; but Sylvia’s presence made me uneasy. It was of the first importance that this sinister stranger should not learn where she lived. The only reasonable course seemed to be to give him the slip if possible.
“What did you make of that man?” Sylvia asked when we were outside in the square. “Don’t you think he was watching us?”
“Yes, I do. And I may say that I have seen him before.”
She turned a terrified face to me and asked: “You don’t think he is the wretch who pushed you into the river?”
Now this was exactly what I did think, but it was not worth while to say so. Accordingly I temporized.
“It is impossible to say. I never saw that man, you know. But I have reason for thinking that this fellow is keeping a watch on me, and it occurs to me that, if he appears still to be following us, I had better put you into a hansom and keep my eye on him until you are out of sight.”
“Oh, I’m not going to agree to that,” she replied with great decision. “I don’t suppose that my presence is much protection to you, but still, you are safer while we are together, and I’m not going to leave you.”
This settled the matter. Of course she was quite right. I was much safer while she was with me, and if she refused to go off alone, we must make our escape together. I looked up the square as we turned out of it towards the Charing Cross Road, but could see no sign of our follower, and, as we walked on at a good pace, I hoped that we might get clear away. But I was not going to take any chances. Before turning homewards, I decided to walk sharply some distance in an easterly direction and then see if there was any sign of pursuit; for my previous experiences of this good gentleman led me to suspect that he was by no means without skill and experience in the shadowing art.
We walked down to Charing Cross and turned eastward along the north side of the Strand. I had chosen this thoroughfare as offering a good cover to a pursuer, who could easily keep out of sight among the crowd of way-farers who thronged the pavement for the first question to be settled was whether we were or were not being shadowed.
“Where are we going now?” Sylvia asked.
“We are going up Bedford Street,” I answered. “There is a book shop on the right-hand side where we can loiter unobtrusively and keep a look-out. If we see nobody, we will try one of the courts off Maiden Lane where we should be certain to catch anyone who was following. But we will try the bookstall first because, if our friend is in attendance, I have a rather neat plan for getting rid of him.”
We accordingly made our way to the bookstall in Bedford Street and began systematically to look through the second-hand volumes; and as we pored over an open book, we were able to keep an effective watch on the end of the street and the Strand beyond. Our vigil was not a long one. We had been at the stall less than a minute when Sylvia whispered to me:
“Do you see that man looking in the shop on the farther side of the Strand?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I have noticed him. He has only just arrived, and I fancy he is our man. If he is, he will probably go into the doorway so as not to have to keep his back to us.”
Almost as I spoke, the man moved into the deep doorway as if to inspect the end of the shop window, and Sylvia exclaimed:
“I’m sure that is the man. I can see his profile now.”
There could be no doubt of the man’s identity; and, at this moment, as if to clinch the matter, he took out a cigarette and lighted it, striking the match with his left hand.
“Come along,” said I. “We will now try my little plan for getting rid of him. We mustn’t seem to hurry.”
We sauntered up to the corner of Maiden Lane and there stood for a few moments looking about us. Then we strolled across to the farther side of Chandos Street, and, as soon as we were out of sight of our follower, crossed the road and slipped in at the entrance to the Civil Service Stores. Passing quickly through the provision department, we halted at the glazed doors, from which we could look out through the Bedford Street entrance.
“There he is!” exclaimed Sylvia. And there he was, sure enough, walking rather quickly up the east side of Bedford Street.
“Now,” said I, “let us make a bolt for it. This way.”
We darted out through the china, furniture and ironmongery departments, across the whole width of the building and out of the Agar Street entrance, where we immediately crossed into King William Street, turned down Adelaide Street, shot through the alley by St. Martin’s Church, and came out opposite the National Portrait Gallery just as a yellow omnibus was about to start. We sprang into the moving vehicle, and, as it rumbled away into the Charing Cross Road, we kept a sharp watch on the end of King William Street. But there was no sign of our pursuer. We had got rid of him for the present, at any rate.
“Don’t you think,” said Sylvia, “that he will suspect that we went into the Stores?”
“I have no doubt he will, and that is where we have him. He can’t come away and leave the building unsearched. Most probably he is, at this very moment, racing madly up and down the stairs and trying to watch the three entrances at the same time.”
Sylvia chuckled gleefully. “It has been quite good fun,” she said, “but I am glad we have shaken him off. I think I shall stay indoors for a day or two and paint, and I hope you’ll stay indoors, too. And that reminds me that I am out of Heyl’s white. I must call in at Robinson’s and get a pound tube. Do you mind? It won’t delay us more than a few minutes.”
Now I would much rather have gone straight on to Hampstead, for our unknown attendant certainly knew the whereabouts of my lodgings and might follow us when he failed to find us in the stores. Moreover, I had, of late, given the neighbourhood of the artist’s-colourman’s shop a rather wide berth, having seen Mrs. Samway from afar once or twice, thereabouts, and having surmised that she tended to haunt that particular part of the Hampstead Road. But the fresh supply of flake white seemed to be a necessity, so I made no objection, and we accordingly alighted opposite the shop and entered. Nevertheless, while Sylvia was making her purchase, I stood near the glass door and kept a watchful eye on the street. When a tram stopped a short distance away, I glanced quickly over its passengers, as well as I could, though without observing anyone who might have been our absent friend. But just as it was about to move on, I saw a woman run out from the pavement and enter; and though I got but an indifferent view of her, I felt an uncomfortable suspicion that the woman was Mrs. Samway.
Looking back, I do not quite understand why I had avoided this woman or why I now looked with distaste on the fact that she was travelling in our direction. She was a pleasant-spoken, intelligent person, and I had no dislike of her, nor any cause for dislike. Perhaps it was the recollection of the offence that she had given Sylvia in this very shop, but a short time since, that made me unwilling to encounter her now in Sylvia’s company. At any rate, whatever the course may have been, throughout the, otherwise, pleasant journey, and in spite of an animated and interesting conversation, the thought of Mrs. Samway continually recurred, and this notwithstanding that I kept a constant, unobtrusive look-out for the mysterious spy who might, even now, be hovering in our rear.
We alighted from the tram at the “Duke of St. Alban’s” and made our way to North End by way of the Highgate Ponds. As we crossed the open fields and the Heath, I turned at intervals to see if there was any sign of our being followed; but no suspicious-looking person appeared in sight, though on two separate occasions, I noticed a woman ahead of us, and walking in much the same direction, turn round and look our way. There was no reason, however, to suppose that she was looking at us, and, in any case, she was too far ahead to be recognizable. At last, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Spaniard’s Road, she finally disappeared, possibly into the hollow beyond, and I saw no more of her.
At the gate of “The Hawthorns” I delivered up the heavy tube of paint, and thus, as it were, formally brought our little outing to an end; and as we shook hands Sylvia treated me to a parting exhortation.
“Now do take care of yourself and keep out of harm’s way,” she urged. “You are so large, you see,” she added with a smile, “and such a very conspicuous object that you ought to take special precautions. And you must come and see us again quite soon. I assure you my aunt is positively pining for another conversation with you. Why shouldn’t you drop in to-morrow and have tea with us?”
Now this very idea had already occurred to me, so I hastened to close with the invitation; and then, as she retired up the path with another “good-bye” and a wave of the hand, I turned away and walked back towards the Heath.
For some minutes I strode on, across furzy hollows or over little hills, traversed by sunken, sandy paths, occupying myself with thoughts of the pleasant, friendly girl whom I had just left and reflections on the strange events of the morning. Presently I mounted a larger hill, on which was perched a little, old-fashioned house. Skirting the wooden fence that enclosed it, I turned the corner and saw before me, at a distance of some forty yards, a rough, rustic seat. On that seat a woman was sitting; and somehow, when I looked at her and noted the graceful droop of the figure, it was without any feeling of surprise—almost that of realized expectation—that I recognized Mrs. Samway.
If I had had any intention of avoiding Mrs. Samway, that intention must inevitably have been frustrated, for her recognition was as instantaneous as my own. Almost as I turned the corner, she looked up and saw me; and a few moments later, she rose and advanced in my direction, so that, to an onlooker it would have appeared as if we had met by appointment. There was obviously nothing for it but to look as pleased as I could manage at such short notice; which I did, shaking her hand with hypocritical warmth.
“And I suppose, Dr. Jardine,” said she, “you are thinking what a very odd coincidence it is that we should happen to meet here?”
“Oh, I don’t know that it is so very odd. I live about here and I understood you to say that you often come up to the Heath. At any rate, our last meeting was a good deal more odd.”
“Yes, indeed. But the truth is that this is not a coincidence at all. I may as well confess that I came here deliberately with the intention of waylaying you.”
This very frank statement took me aback considerably; so much so that I could think of no appropriate remark beyond mumbling something to the effect that “it was very flattering of her.”
“I have been trying,” she continued, “to get a few words with you for some time past; but, although I have lurked in your line of march in the most shameless manner, I have always managed to miss you. I thought, from what you told me, that you passed Robinson’s shop on your way to the hospital.”
“So I do,” I replied mendaciously; for I could hardly tell her that I had lately taken to shooting up by-streets with the express purpose of avoiding that particular stretch of pavement.
“It’s rather curious that I never happened to meet you there. However, I didn’t, so, to-day, I determined to take the bull by the horns and catch you here.”
This last statement, like the former ones, gave me abundant matter for reflection. How the deuce had she managed to “catch me here”? I supposed that she had seen Sylvia and me in the Hampstead Road and had guessed that we were coming on to this neighbourhood. That was a case of feminine intuition; which, like the bone-setter’s skill, is a wonderful thing—when it comes off (and when it doesn’t one isn’t expected to notice the fact). Then she had gone on ahead—still guessing at our final destination—and kept us in sight while keeping out of view herself. It was not so very easy to understand and not at all comfortable to think of, for there was a disagreeable suggestion that she had somehow ascertained Sylvia’s place of abode beforehand. And yet—well, the whole affair was rather mysterious.
“You don’t ask why it was that I wanted to waylay you,” she said, at length, as I made no comment on her last statement.
“There is an old saying,” I replied, “that one shouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.”
“That is very diplomatic,” she retorted with a laugh. “But I daresay your knowledge of women makes the question unnecessary.”
“My knowledge of women,” said I, “might be put into a nutshell and still leave plenty of room for the nut and a good, fat maggot besides.”
“Then I must beware of you. The man who professes to know nothing of women is the most deep and dangerous class of person. But there is one item of knowledge that you seem to have acquired. You seem to know that women like to have pretty things said to them.”
“If you call that knowledge,” said I, “you must apply the same name to the mere blind impulse that leads a spider to spin a nice, symmetrical web.”
She laughed softly and looked up at me with an expression of amused reflection. “I am thinking,” she said, “what a very fine symmetrical web you would spin if you were a spider.”
“Possibly,” I replied. “But it looks as if the rôle of bluebottle were the one that is being marked out for me.”
“Oh! Not a bluebottle, Dr. Jardine. It doesn’t suit you at all. If you must make a comparison, why not say a Goliath beetle, and have something really dignified—and not so very inappropriate?”
“Well, then, a Goliath beetle, if you prefer it; not that he would look very dignified, kicking his heels in the elegant web of the superlatively elegant feminine spider.”
“Oh, but that isn’t pretty of you at all, Dr. Jardine. In fact it is quite horrid; and unfair, too; because you are trying to get the information without asking a direct question.”
“What question am I supposed to ask?”
“You needn’t ask any. I will take pity on your masculine pride and tell you why I have been lying in wait for you, although I daresay you have guessed. The truth is, I am simply devoured by curiosity.”
“Concerning what?”
“Now, how can you ask? Just think! One day I meet you in the Hampstead Road, going about your ordinary business, apparently a fixture, at least for months. A few days later, a hundred miles from London, I feel myself suddenly seized from behind; I turn round and there are you with tragedy and adventure written large all over you.”
“I thought the tragedy was rather on your side; and so did the ancient mariner with the black bottle and the tea cup. But—”
“I don’t wish to discuss the views of that well-meaning old brute. I want an explanation. I want to know how you came to be in Folkestone and in that extraordinary condition. I am sure something strange must have happened to you.”
“Why? Haven’t I as much right to be in Folkestone as you have?”
“That is mere evasion. When I see a man who is usually rather carefully and very neatly dressed, walking in the streets of a seaport town without hat or a stick and with a collar that looks as if it had been used to clean out a saucepan, and great stains on his clothes, I am justified in inferring that something unusual has happened to him.”
“I didn’t think you had noticed my negligé get-up.”
“At the time I did not. I was very upset and agitated, I had just had a lot of worry and was compelled to cross to France at a moment’s notice; and then there was that horrible horse, and the sudden way that you seized me and then got knocked down; and the—”
“The ancient mariner.”
“Yes, the ancient mariner; and the knowledge that I was behaving like an idiot and couldn’t help it—though you were so nice and kind to me. So you see, I was hardly conscious of what was happening at the time. But afterwards, when I had recovered my wits a little, I recalled the astonishing figure that you made, and I have been wondering ever since what had happened to you. I assure you, Dr. Jardine, you looked as if you might have swum to Folkestone.”
“Did I, by Jove!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Well, appearances weren’t so very deceptive. The fact is that I had swum part of the way.”
She looked at me incredulously. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that you are now looking on a modern and strictly up-to-date edition of Sinbad the Sailor.”
“That isn’t very explanatory. But I suppose it isn’t meant to be. It is just a preliminary stimulant to whet my appetite for marvels, and a most unnecessary one, I can assure you, for I am absolutely agape with curiosity. Do go on. Tell me exactly what had happened to you.”
Now the truth is that I had already said rather more than was strictly discreet and would gladly have drawn in my horns. But I had evidently let myself in for some sort of plausible explanation, and a lack of that enviable faculty that enables its possessor to tell a really convincing and workmanlike lie, condemned me to a mere unimaginative adherence to the bald facts, though I did make one slight and amateurish effort at prevarication.
“You want a detailed log of Sinbad’s voyages, do you?” said I. “Then you shall have it. We will begin at the beginning. The port of departure was the Embankment somewhere near Cleopatra’s Needle. I was leaning over the parapet, staring down at the water like a fool, when some practical joker came along, and, apparently thinking it would be rather funny to give me a fright, suddenly lifted me off my feet. But my jocose friend hadn’t allowed for the top-heaviness of a person of my height, and, before you could say ‘knife,’ I had slipped from his hold and taken a most stylish header into the water. Fortunately for me, a barge happened at the moment to be towing past, and, when I had managed to haul myself on board, I fell into the arms of a marine species of Good Samaritan, who, not having a supply of the orthodox oil and wine, proceeded to fill me up with hot gin and water, which is distinctly preferable for internal application. Then the Samaritan aforesaid clothed me in gorgeous marine raiment and stowed me in a cupboard to sleep off the oil and wine, which I did after some sixteen hours, and then awoke to find our good ship on the broad bosom of the ocean. And so—not to weary you with the incidents of the voyage—I came to Folkestone, where I found a beautiful lady endeavouring, very unsuccessfully, to hypnotize a run-away horse; and so to the adventure of the tarred nets and the ancient mariner with the black bottle.”
Mrs. Samway smiled a little consciously as I mentioned the last incidents, but the smile quickly faded and left a deeply thoughtful expression on her face.
“You take it all very calmly,” said she, “but it seems to me to have been a rather terrible experience. You really had a very narrow escape from death.”
“Yes; quite near enough. I’m far from wanting any more from the same tap.”
“And I don’t quite see why you assume that it was a mere clumsy joke that sent you into the river by accident.”
“Why, what else could it have been?”
“It looks more like a deliberate attempt to drown you. Perhaps you have some enemy who might want to make away with you.”
“I haven’t. There isn’t a soul in the world who owes me the slightest grudge.”
“That seems rather a bold thing to say, but I suppose you know. Still, I should think you ought to bear this strange affair in mind, and be a little careful when you go out at night; to avoid the riverside, for instance. Have you—did you give any information to the police about this accident, as you call it?”
“Good Lord! No! What would have been the use?”
“I thought you might have given them some description of the man who pushed you over.”
“But I never saw him. I don’t even know for certain that it was a man. It might have been a woman for all that I can tell.”
Mrs. Samway looked up at me with that strangely penetrating expression that I had seen before in those singular, pale eyes of hers.
“You don’t mean that?” she said. “You don’t really think that it could have been a woman?”
“I don’t think very much about it; but as I never saw the person who did me the honour of hoisting me overboard, I am clearly not in a position to depose as to the sex of that person. But if it was a woman, she must have been an uncommonly strong one.”
Mrs. Samway continued to look at me questioningly.
“I thought you seemed to hint at a suspicion that it actually was a woman. You would surely be able to tell.”
“I suppose I should if there were time to think about the matter; but, you see, before I was fairly aware that anyone had hold of me, I was sticking my head into the mud at the bottom of the river, which is a process that does not tend very much to clarify one’s thoughts.”
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But it is a most mysterious and dreadful affair. I can’t think how you can take it so calmly. You don’t seem to be in the least concerned by the fact that you have been within a hairs-breadth of being murdered. What do your friends think about it?”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Samway,” I replied evasively, “one doesn’t talk much about incidents of this kind. It doesn’t sound very credible, and one doesn’t want to gain a reputation as a sort of modern Munchausen. I shouldn’t have told you but that you were already partly in the secret and that you cross-examined me in such a determined fashion.”
“But,” she exclaimed, “do you mean to tell me that you have said nothing to anyone about this extraordinary adventure of yours?”
“No, I don’t say that. Of course, I had to give some sort of explanation to my landlady, for instance, but I didn’t tell her all that I have told you; and I would rather, if you don’t mind, that you didn’t mention the affair to anyone. I should hate to be suspected of romancing.”
“You shan’t be through anything that I may say,” she replied, “though I should hardly think that anyone who knew you would be likely to suspect you of inventing imaginary adventures.”
For some minutes after this we walked on without speaking, and, from time to time, I stole a glance at my companion. And, once again, I found myself impressed by something distinctive and unusual in her appearance. Her unquestionable beauty was not like that of most pretty women, localized and unequal, having features of striking attractiveness set in an indifferent or even defective matrix. It was diffused and all pervading, the product of sheer physical excellence. With most women one feels that the more attractive wares are judiciously pushed to the front of the window while a discreet reticence is maintained respecting the unpresentable residue. Not so with Mrs. Samway. Her small, shapely head, her symmetrical face, her fine supple figure, and her easy movements, all spoke of a splendid physique. She was not merely a pretty woman, she was that infinitely rarer creature, a physically perfect human being; comely with the comeliness of faultless proportion, graceful with the grace of symmetry and strength.
Suddenly she looked up at me with just a hint of shyness and a little heightening of the colour in her cheek.
“Are you going to tell me again, Dr. Jardine, that a cat may look at a king? Or was it that a king may look at a cat?”
“Whichever you please,” I replied. “We will put them on a footing of equality, excepting that the king might have the better claim if the cat happened to be an exceptionally good-looking cat. But I wasn’t really staring at you this time, I was only giving you a sort of friendly look over. You weren’t quite yourself, I think, when we met last.”
“No, I certainly was not. So you are now making an inspection. May I ask if I am to be informed of the diagnosis, as I think you call it?”
Now, to tell the truth, I had thought her looking rather haggard and worn and decidedly thinner; and when her sprightliness subsided in the intervals of our somewhat flippant talk, it had seemed to me that her face took on an expression that was weary and even sad. But it would hardly do to say as much.
“It is quite irregular,” I replied. “The diagnosis is for the doctor; the patient is only concerned with the treatment. But I’ll make an exception in your case, especially as my report is quite unsensational. I thought you looked as if you had been doing rather too much and not greatly enjoying the occupation. Am I right?”
“Yes. Quite right. I’ve had a lot of worry and bother lately, and not enough rest and peace.”
“I hope all that is at an end now?”
“I don’t know that it is,” she replied, wearily, “or, for that matter, that it will ever be. Fate or destiny, or whatever we may call it, starts us upon a certain road, and along that road we must needs trudge, wherever it may lead.”
I was rather startled at the sudden despondency of her tone. Apparently the road that Mrs. Samway trod was not strewn with roses.
“Still,” I said, “it is a long road that has no turning.”
“It is,” she agreed, bitterly, “but many have to travel such a road, to find the turning at last barred by the churchyard gate.”
“Oh, come!” I protested, “we don’t talk of churchyards at your time of life. We think of the jolly wayside inns and the buttercups and daisies and the may-blossom in the hedgerows. Churchyard indeed! We will leave that to the old folk and the village donkey, if you please.”
She smiled rather wanly. Her gaiety seemed to have deserted her for good.
“The wayside inns and the wayside flowers,” said she, “are your portion—at least, I hope so. They are not for me. And, after all, there are worse things to think of than a nice quiet churchyard, with the village donkey browsing among the graves, as you say.”
“I quite agree with you. From the standpoint of the disinterested spectator, not contemplating freehold investments, nothing can be more delightfully rustic and peaceful. It is the personal application that I object to.”
Again she smiled, but very pensively, and for a while we walked on in silence. Presently she resumed. “I used to think that the shortness of life was quite a tragedy. That was when I was young. But now—”
“When you were young!” I interrupted. “Why, what are you now? I can tell you, Mrs. Samway, that there is many a girl of twenty who would be only too delighted to exchange personalities with you, and who would stand to make a mighty fine bargain if she could do it. If you talk like this, I shall have to refer you to the great Leonardo’s advice to painters.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“He recommends the frequent use of a looking-glass.”
She gave me a quick glance and then blushed so very deeply that I was quite alarmed lest I should have given offence. But her next words reassured me.
“It was nice of you to say that, and most kindly meant. I won’t say that I don’t care very much how I look, because that would be an ungracious return for your compliment and it wouldn’t be quite true. There are times when one is quite glad to feel that one looks presentable; the present moment, for instance.”
I acknowledged the compliment, with a bow.
“Thank you,” I said. “That was more than I deserved. I only wish that your fortune was equal to your looks, but I am afraid it isn’t. I have an uncomfortable feeling that you are not very happy.”
“I’m afraid I’m not,” she replied. “Life is rather a lottery, you know, and the worst of it is that you can only take a single ticket. So, when you find that you’ve drawn the wrong number and you realize that there is no second chance—well, it isn’t very inspiriting, is it?”
I had to admit that it was not; and, after a short pause, she continued:
“Women are poor dependent creatures, Dr. Jardine; dependent, I mean, for their happiness on the people who surround them.”
“But that is true of us all.”
“Not quite. A man—like yourself, for instance—has his work and his ambitions that make him independent of others. But, for a woman, whatever pretences she may make as to larger interests in life, a husband, a home and one or two nice children form the real goal of her ambition.”
“But you are not a lone spinster, Mrs. Samway,” I reminded her.
“No, I am not. But I have no children, no proper home, and not a real friend in the world—unless I may think of you as one.”
“I hope you always will,” I exclaimed impulsively; for there was, to me, something very pathetic in the evident loneliness of this woman. She must, I felt, be friendless indeed if she must needs appeal for friendship to a comparative stranger like myself.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” she replied, “for I am making you bear a friend’s burden. I hope you will forgive me for pouring out my complaints to you in this way.”
“It isn’t difficult,” said I, “to bear other people’s troubles with fortitude. But if sympathy is any good, believe me, Mrs. Samway, when I tell you that I am really deeply grieved to think that you are getting so much less out of life than you ought. I only wish that I could do something more than sympathize.”
“I believe you do,” she said. “I felt, at Folkestone, how kind you were—as a good man is to a woman in her moments of weakness. That is why, I suppose, I was impelled to talk to you like this. And that is why,” she added, after a little pause, “I felt a pang of envy when I saw you pass with your pretty companion.”
I started somewhat at this. Where the deuce could she have seen us near enough to tell whether my companion was pretty or not? I turned the matter over rapidly in my mind, and meanwhile, I said:
“I don’t quite see why you envied me, Mrs. Samway.”
“I didn’t say that I envied you,” she replied, with a faint smile and the suspicion of a blush.
“Or her either,” I retorted. “We are only the merest acquaintances.”
My conscience smote me somewhat as I made this outrageous statement, but Mrs. Samway took me up instantly.
“Then you’ve only known her quite a short time?”
The rapidity with which she had jumped to this conclusion fairly took my breath away, and I had answered her question before I was aware of it.
“But,” I added, “I don’t quite see how you arrived at your conclusion.”
“I thought,” she replied, “that you seemed to like one another very well.”
“So we do, I think. But can’t acquaintances like one another?”
“Oh, certainly; but if they are a young man and a maiden they are not likely to remain mere acquaintances very long. That was how I argued.”
“I see. Very acute of you. By the way, where did you see us? I didn’t see you.”
“Of course you didn’t. Yet you passed quite close to me on the Spaniard’s Road, immersed in conversation, and little suspecting that the green eyes of envy were fixed on you.”
“Oh, now, Mrs. Samway, I can’t have that. They’re not green, you know, although what their exact colour is I shouldn’t like to say offhand.”
“What! Not after that careful inspection?”
“That didn’t include the eyes. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I made another, just to satisfy my curiosity and settle the question for good.”
“Oh, do, by all means, if it is such a weighty question.”
We both halted and I stared into the clear depths of her singular, pale hazel eyes with an impertinent affectation of profound scrutiny, while she looked up smilingly into mine. Suddenly, to my utter confusion, her eyes filled and she turned away her head.
“Oh! please forgive me!” she exclaimed. “I beg your pardon—I do beg your pardon most earnestly for being such a wretched bundle of emotions. You would forgive me if you knew—what I can’t tell you.”
“There is no need, dear Mrs. Samway,” I said very gently, laying my hand on her arm. “Are we not friends? And may I not give you my warmest sympathy without asking too curiously what brings the tears to your eyes?”
I was, in truth, deeply moved, as a young man is apt to be by a pretty woman’s tears. But more than this, something whispered to me that my playful impertinence had suddenly brought home to her the void that was in her life; the lack of intimate affection at which she had seemed to hint. And, instantly, all that was masculine in me had risen up with the immemorial instinct of the male in defence of the female; for, whatever her faults may have been, Mrs. Samway was feminine to the finger-tips.
She pressed my hand for a moment and impatiently brushed the tears from her eyes.
“I do hope, Dr. Jardine,” she said, looking up at me with a smile, “that your wife will be a good woman. You’ll be a dreadful victim if she isn’t, with your quick sympathy and your endless patience with feminine silliness. And now I won’t plague you any more with my tantrums. I hope I am not bringing you a great deal out of your way. You do live in this direction, don’t you?”
“Yes; and I have been assuming that my direction was yours, too. Is that right? Are you going back to Hampstead Road?”
“Not at once. I’m going to make a call at Highgate first.”
“Then you’ll want to go up Highgate Rise or Swain’s Lane; and I will walk up with you if you’ll let me.”
“I think my nearest way will be up the little path that leads out of Swain’s Lane. You know it, I expect?”
“Yes. It is locally known as Love Lane: it leads to the crest of the hill.”
“That is right. You shall see me to the top of it and then I’ll take myself off and leave you in peace.”
We had by this time crossed Parliament Hill Fields and passed the end of the Highgate Ponds. A few paces more brought us out at the top of the Grove and a few more to the entrance of the rather steep and very narrow lane. For some time Mrs. Samway walked by my side in silence, and, by the reflective way in which she looked at the ground before her, seemed to be wrapped in meditation, which I did not disturb. As we entered the lane, however, she looked up at me thoughtfully and said:
“I wonder what you think of me, Dr. Jardine.”
It was a fine opening for a compliment, but somehow, compliments seemed out of place, after what had passed between us. I accordingly evaded the question with another.
“What do you suppose I think of you?”
“I don’t know. I hardly know what I think of myself. You would be quite justified in thinking me rather forward, to waylay you in this deliberate fashion.”
“Well, I don’t. Your curiosity about that Folkestone affair seems most natural and reasonable.”
“I’m glad you don’t think me forward,” she said; “but, as to my curiosity, I am beginning to doubt whether it was that alone that determined me of a sudden to come here and talk to you. I half suspect that I was feeling a little more solitary than usual, and that some instinct told me that you would be kind to me and say nice things and pet me just a little—as you have done.”
I was deeply touched by her pathetic little confession; so deeply that I could find nothing to say in return.
“You don’t think any the worse of me,” she continued, “for coming to you and begging a little sympathy and friendship?”
As she spoke, she looked up very wistfully and earnestly in my face, and rested her hand for a moment on my arm. I took it in mine and drew her arm under my own as I replied:
“Of course I don’t. Only I think it a wonder and a shame that my poor friendship and sympathy should be worth the consideration of a woman like you.”
She pressed my arm slightly, and, after a little interval, said in a low voice with just the suspicion of a tremor in it:
“You have been very kind to me, Dr. Jardine; more kind than you know. I am very, very grateful to you for taking what was really an intrusion so nicely.”
“It was not in the least an intrusion,” I protested; “and as to gratitude, a good many men would be very delighted to earn it on the same terms. You don’t seem to set much value on your own exceedingly agreeable society.”
She smiled very prettily at this, and again we walked on for a while up the slope without speaking. Once she turned her head as if listening for some sound from behind us, but our feet were making so much noise on the loose gravel, and the sound reverberated so much in the narrow space between the wooden fences that I, at least, heard nothing. Presently we turned a slight bend and came in sight of the opening at the top of the hill, guarded by a couple of posts. Within a few yards of the latter she halted, and withdrawing her hand from my arm, turned round and faced me.
“We must say ‘Good-bye’ here,” said she. “I wonder if I shall ever see you again.”
For a moment I felt a strong impulse to propose some future meeting at a definite date, but, fortunately some glimmering of discretion—and perhaps some thought of Sylvia—restrained me.