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- Herausgeber: Fred M White
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
Nothing from the hot languid street below but a grumbling, whining voice or two. A mean London street off the river in August. How men who know the country and have the scent of the sap in their nostrils can toil and moil under such conditions is known only to themselves and their God.High up a cheap low-flash lamp added to the heat of a third-floor room, and gave a spice of danger to the occupant's more sordid condition. The man, bending over a penny exercise book, rose as there came from below a succession of knocks growing gradually louder. The dull double thud came presently far down below. A small servant came presently and laid a letter by the writer's elbow.It was no manuscript returned or stereo-typed note of acceptance, nothing more than a curt intimation that unless the rent of the third floor of No. 19, Pant-street, was paid before twelve o'clock to-morrow a distress would be levied. These things are not idle threats in Pant-street.
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Fred M. White
A Shadowed Love
Table of contents
I. — HARD UP.
II. — AN ADVENTURE IN THE SQUARE.
III. — A VANISHED MEMORY.
IV. — "I KNOW HER."
V. — THE MOTH CATCHER.
VI. — THE RESTORED PHOTOGRAPH.
VII. — GREIGSTEIN.
VIII. — ONE OF THE STATELY HOMES OF ENGLAND.
IX. — "THE TIGER MOTH."
X. — POLICY OF SILENCE.
XI. — WHITE HEATHER.
XII. — MR. MARTLETT.
XIII. — BLACKMAIL.
XIV. — A DISCOVERY.
XV. — A LIGHTED MATCH.
XVI. — A COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT.
XVII. — A FRIEND IN NEED.
XVIII. — A VISITOR.
XIX. — FENCING.
XX. — A PERFECT CONFIDENCE.
XXI. — UNDER THE STARS.
XXII. — HALCYON.
XXIII. — A RAY OF HOPE.
XXIV. — ANXIOUS MOMENTS.
XXV. — LAWYER AND CLIENT.
XXVI. — LOST.
XXVII. — MARY TAKES A WALK.
XXVIII. — LADY STANMERE SEES A GHOST.
XXIX. — ANOTHER VISITOR.
XXX. — THE PRODIGAL.
XXXI. — "IF I COULD ONLY SEE."
XXXII. — A WHITED SEPULCHRE.
XXXIII. — A RUSSIAN CIGARETTE.
XXXIV. — VENNER IN LONDON.
XXXV. — THE WRITING ON THE TABLET.
XXXVI. — MORE BLIND THAN ONE.
XXXVII. — FACE TO FACE.
XXXVIII. — AFTER THE STORM.
XXXIX. — "IS THIS THING TRUE?"
XL. — "NOT YET."
XLI. — VON WRANGEL CAPTURES ANOTHER SPECIMEN.
XLII. — ONE WAY OUT.
XLIII. — ON THE TERRACE.
XLIV. — SEYMOUR SEES A FACE.
XLV. — A FAILURE.
XLVI. — IN TROUBLE.
XLVII. — NOT QUITE A FAILURE AFTER ALL.
XLVIII. — RETALIATION.
XLIX. — THE FIRST BLOW.
L. — FIXING THE TIME.
LI. — AN EYE-WITNESS.
LII. — SCOTCHED.
LIII. — CAUSE CELÈBRE.
LIV. — CROSS PURPOSES.
LV. — FREE!
LVI. — CLEARED.
LVII. — MARY SEES AT LAST.
LVIII. — "EYES CLEARER GROWN."
LIX. — L'ENVOI.
I. — HARD UP.
II. — AN ADVENTURE IN THE SQUARE.
"You'll get on," the cashier said with grim admiration, as he glanced at Mr. Spencer's card with its few pencilled lines. "There's your money."
"Thanks," Dick replied. "Would you mind giving me that card back? It's sentimental, of course, but I should like to keep it. And if I can do anything for you—"
"Well, you can, as it happens. There's your card. There's a letter come for the governor which is marked urgent. I've got nobody I can send without inconvenience, and if it is not too much out of your way perhaps you will take it?"
It was a little cooler now, a few drops of rain had fallen, but not more than sufficient to lay the dust. Cambria Square was getting dark, a brooding silence lay over the gardens. Dick delivered his letter to the surly hall porter, and then turned his face eastwards. A few drops of the late rain pattered from leaf to leaf; there was a pleasant smell of moist earth in the air. By shutting his eyes Dick could conjure up visions of Stanmere.
The sound of hurried footsteps brought him to earth again. As he re-crossed to the pavement a tall figure, with streaming beard and white agitated face came round the corner almost into his arms. On the impulse of the moment Dick shot out a strong arm and detained him.
"I hope there is nothing wrong, sir?" he asked, meaningly.
The tall man with the beard paused and rubbed his eyes. He had every appearance of one who flies in his sleep from some terror.
"Did you see anybody?" he whispered. "A man who had—but of course you didn't, the thing is utterly absurd. Sir, are you a man of imagination?"
Dick replied that unless he possessed imagination, he had cruelty mistaken his vocation in life. The strange man with the wild air was utterly unknown to him, and yet there was something in his voice that was familiar. The terror was gradually dying from his face; he was growing sane and quiet again. It was a fine, broad, kindly face, but there was the shadow of some great trouble haunting the deep-set grey eyes.
"I must have astonished you just now," he said. "As a matter or fact, I have had a great many years abroad. Sunstroke, you understand; since when I have never been quite the same. I can manage my property as well as anybody; for months I am quite myself, and then these attacks come suddenly. Always at night when I am alone in the dark; I come out to try and cure myself. At the same time, are you quite sure that you met nobody?"
"If you would like," Dick suggested, "I shall be glad to walk a little way—"
The stranger replied somewhat curtly to the effect that there was no occasion for anything of the kind. He passed on with a steady step, leaving Dick to his more or less amused thoughts. Such a character might be useful to him in fiction. The whole facts of the case appealed to the young novelist's imagination. Here was a rich and prosperous man, envied and flattered and admired, who was constantly pursued by some haunting terror. Perhaps in the early days he had committed some great crime; perhaps some dreadful vengeance was hanging over his head.
But the noble, kindly face belied all that. No doubt the explanation given was no more than the truth. The poor fellow suffered in that peculiar form, and he was doing his best to shame himself out of it.
"I'll take another turn round the square," Dick said to himself. "It's foolish, but I am too restless to go home quite yet."
It was very still there. Most of the lights were out in the staid houses by this time, a policeman clanked along and disappeared. Then a murmur of voices arose, the distant sound of laboured breathing, a shout and a strangled cry. It was all strange and dreamy for a moment, then the reality of tragedy flashed upon the listener. He might be in time to prevent outrage or worse.
He turned the corner quickly. As he did so, his tall friend with the beard came along. He was running fast, with the free and easy stride of the athlete, running with an ease surprising in one of his time of life, his beard streaming in the breeze caused by his own swift motion. He was without a hat; there was a certain ferocious furtiveness in his eyes, but the broad, noble face had not changed. It was not the face of a man in terror now, but the face of one who flies from some crime.
He dodged Dick, who stood to bar his progress, with the greatest ease. The smile on his face was of contempt. There was not the slightest sign of recognition on it. And Dick could have sworn that his late companion had worn a black tie, yet there he was again with a vivid red one.
Meanwhile the groans were still going on. Dick sped rapidly round the corner. The whole thing had happened so quickly that no time had been lost. Just by one of the pillars of the stout, square railings, was a patch of blood. From somewhere close by moaning could be heard.
"Where are you?" Dick whispered.
"Inside," came the reply. "When he struck me down I saw that there was somebody behind him. Then I turned and lifted up the second rail from the stone capital and crept inside here. It comes up from the bottom. You can get through that way."
Dick staggered back. The voice was quite familiar to him. It sounded just like the voice of the dangerous lunatic he had encountered half an hour ago. But that could not be, seeing that the madman in question had just passed him, flying apparently for his life, in another direction.
"I'll come to you," Dick Stammered. "It's quite safe."
"You are quite sure that he has gone?"
"Certain. He passed me running his best. Did you say the second rail? Yes, here it is. Now then."
The railing slid back in its socket, leaving a space large enough to admit a human body. Dick squeezed through, until presently he could see the dim outline of a figure prostrate on the grass.
"Are you very much hurt?" he asked.
"No," said the strangely familiar voice. "A mere flesh wound. What's that?"
"So far as I can judge, a belated policeman hurrying to the spot. Shall I call him?"
Dick's arm was grasped with passionate force.
"Not for worlds!" came a hoarse reply. "If you have any regard for more than one pure and innocent life you will be silent. Let the man search; he will find nothing. I found that loose rail by accident, and by this means I often come here late at night. Hush! that man is coming close."
The flashing zones of light ceased, the beat of footsteps died away. All was still and quiet once again.
"We can't stay here all night," Dick suggested.
His companion staggered to his feet, Dick helping him into the roadway. He stood under the lamplight the most astonished young man in London, for his companion was the man with the grey beard and the kindly face.
"You seem to be my guardian spirit to-night," he said, faintly.
Dick had no reply. He was too dazed to think as yet.
III. — A VANISHED MEMORY.
"Tell me all about sir," he suggested.
"I can tell you nothing whatever," said the other, still slinking with terror. "My mind has gone again, I only know that I have had a great shock, which is none the less terrible because I have been expecting it for years. I heard his step and ran. Put me in a crowd with a million people and I could pick out his step without hesitation."
The speaker wiped the blood from his face. He was not very much hurt, only frightened to the verge of insanity. He was quivering all over like a reed shaken by the wind.
"Why does this man pursue you?" Stevenson asked.
"I don't know. I have entirely forgotten. But I never forget his step and that I must fly when I hear it coming. You are a gentleman?"
Dick modestly hoped so. The knowledge was one of the few consolations that remained to him. The old man looked long and earnestly into his pleasant, open face. It was some time before he spoke.
"At present I know nothing," he said at length. "The terror has deprived me of my wits for the time being. To-morrow I shall be doing my business again as if nothing had happened. I ask you to leave me now, sir, and think no more of what you have seen and heard. Let it be a secret between us."
"Provided that you let me see you home," said Dick.
"No; I am going to walk about a little longer. Then it may come back to me. At present I could not tell you my address or even—"
He broke off abruptly, and regarded his companion with troubled eyes. The man had actually forgotten his name and address. It was utterly impossible for him to be left like this.
"We'll speak to a policeman," Dick said, promptly.
The terror shut down again, the deep-set eyes dilated.
"No, no," he whispered; "anything but that. The police must not know. Do you want to ruin me utterly?"
"Then I am going to take you home," Dick said, firmly. "Yours may be an exceedingly valuable life for all I know. Where do you live?"
"As I hope for salvation I cannot tell you. It will come back to me presently, perhaps in a few minutes, two hours. But it will come back."
"But surely your own name, sir—"
"I have no more cognisance of it than I have of your own."
The man spoke in evident sincerity. It was clear that he concealed nothing. All the time Dick wondered why his voice was so strangely familiar. But he had other things to occupy his attention. He must respect the old man's earnest prayer to keep the story from the police. At the same time, in his present demented condition, it was impossible to leave him to the mercy of the streets. It was a pretty puzzle for the young novelist. If this thing were a story, how would he have got out of the difficulty?
"How long have you been out to-night?" he asked, tentatively.
"I don't know. At present I don't know anything. There is only a vague impression that a beautiful girl with blue eyes is waiting for me anxiously. If you ask me who she is, I fancy it is my daughter."
"Then the beautiful girl with the blue eyes shall not be disappointed," said Stevenson, cheerfully. "I shall find a way out."
He rubbed his coat sleeve thoughtfully. There was a little dampness on it from the effects of the recent spurt of rain, and Dick noticed that the clothing of his companion was perfectly dry. The rain had been over for nearly half an hour, therefore it was manifest the old man had quite recently left the house. He was not a fast walker, therefore he could not be far from home. The deduction was quite logical.
"You came out after the rain?" Dick asked.
"Yes, I went back, fearing that it would be heavy. It is too hot a night for one to wear an overcoat. Therefore I waited for the rain to stop."
Something had been gained, at any rate. Stevenson studied his companion latently. On his dark coat he could see a number of short white hairs.
"You keep a small fox-terrier dog?" he asked, with sudden inspiration.
The other nodded. His memory seemed to be curiously patchy. The little things seemed with him, the great ones were gone. "A little fox-terrier called Ben," he said.
With that Dick was fain to be content. Here he was saddled with a lunatic old gentleman in the streets of midnight London, and the only clue to the local habitation of his companion was that he possessed a dog called Ben. That master and dog were good friends Stevenson deduced from the hairs on his companion's clothing. What the novelist had to do now was to look for a house within a radius of a mile or so where there was a dog called Ben.
It seemed slightly ridiculous, but Stevenson could think of no better plan than getting his companion to whistle and call the dog at intervals. If the worst came to the worst he could take his demented friend to his own humble abode and keep him there till morning. For some time it had been painfully apparent to Dick that he was faint for want of food. If he collapsed now there would be nothing for it but the nearest police station.
"Whistle again," he said, dreamily. "Try once more."
They were in Cambria Square now, near the large block of flats. The flats appeared to have several doors, for this one was not even on the same side as Stevenson entered an hour or two before. The old gentleman whistled softly, and called Ben by name for about the fiftieth time. There was a yelping and scratching behind the door, and a dog whining in joyful recognition.
"Shades of the immortal Dupurin," Dick cried, "success at last. It is very certain that we have found your house, sir."
With no fear of surly porter before his eyes, Dick opened the door.
A little dog came bounding out and gyrated wildly. A hall porter appeared, and with the surly insolence of his kind demanded to know what was the matter.
"This gentleman lives here, I think," Dick said. "He has had a nasty fall—"
"Second floor," the porter growled. "Lift's off for the night. Better take him up, sir. Telephone on next floor if you want a doctor."
With a certain pardonable curiosity Dick led the way upstairs. So far as he could see there was only two sets of flats on the second floor, and one of them was obviously in the hands of the decorators. Therefore, there was only one alternative. Dick pushed into a corridor that seemed familiar to him, and boldly led the way into a drawing-room, where a girl was seated at the piano playing soft dreamy music.
The room was bathed in electric light; there were wonderful works of art there—silver of Cellini, engravings after Romney and Reynolds, a Hopper or two, some marvellous old French furniture. But the most striking thing about the room were the marvellous masses of flowers everywhere. The whole place was a veritable bower of them, roses and lilies and violets. The mere arrangement of them was in itself a work of art.
But Dick forgot the flowers a moment later as the girl turned her face towards him. It was the beautiful girl with the pathetic blue eyes he had seen two hours before. The intruder had not the least doubt about this, that face and those eyes were too indelibly printed on his mind for that.
The girl came forward without hesitation.
"I have been anxious about you," she cried. "Father, you have had one of your bad turns, I could hear that by your step as you came upstairs. And this gentleman has brought you home, though he is tired and utterly worn out himself."
"It is good of you to think of me," Dick stammered; "but how could you possibly know that I am—"
Starving, he was about to say, but stopped in time. The girl laughed with a rippling music that filled the room.
"I have the gift of second sight," she said. Though her face was wreathed in smiles, the great blue eyes never laughed, but ever remained so strangely pathetic. "Only a man utterly worn out would walk as you do. And you are quite young, too. You must have something to eat at once."
She crossed the room and rang the bell. Dick watched her graceful motions with a pleasure that was almost akin to pain.
IV. — "I KNOW HER."
A servant or two came and went as if an order for a midnight supper was a matter of course, then there came a stolid looking man with a Teutonic face, who took the host away like a prisoner in custody.
"My father will be better presently," the girl said. "He is subject to strange lapses of memory. Kant's system of treatment never fails to benefit him. Now, will you please to have some supper, Mr.—"
"My name is Richard Stevenson," Dick said. "I was in the building some time ago, and I had the pleasure of seeing you before, Miss—"
"Call me Miss Mary. That is the only name I have. As I have no friends and never see anybody, my name cannot matter. Also, as I have the strongest possible reasons for disliking my own, I am always Miss Mary. Now, will you please eat your supper without further delay?"
It was delicious, especially to a man who had long been a stranger to daintily-served, well-cooked food. The chicken and ham were perfect, the lettuce crisp and cool, and the claret soft and velvety to the taste. It was a different man who rose from the table presently.
"You must finish the claret," Mary said. "You have only had one glass. Are there not some cigarettes on the table there?"
Dick could not see any. Mary advanced to find them. Her long, slim fingers seemed to caress everything that she touched.
"Surely they are on the far corner by your left hand," Dick suggested.
For some reason the girl blushed deeply.
"Then they have been moved," she said. "I cannot find them. I don't like things to be moved. It upsets all my scheme of memory. I always boast that I can see anything in the room, and when the servants—"
"Is your eye-sight deficient?" Dick asked.
"I have no eye-sight," came the quiet reply. "I am stone-blind."
Dick was utterly shocked. This was the last thing in the world that he had expected. Those great blue eyes were very pathetic and sorrowful; but they looked so pure and clear and liquid. He stammered an apology.
"I am so deeply sorry," he said. "But you see I could not possibly know. And you seemed to see me when I came in, you moved so freely, and you actually knew that I had taken only one glass of claret."
"That is because my hearing is so good," Mary replied. "One instinctively trains one sense to take the place of the missing one. I can deduce a great deal by the way people walk. And I have lived almost entirely in this and my bedroom for many years. Really, so far as this room is concerned, I can see. I know where everything is, I can tell you what flowers there are in this and that vase, though there are scores of them. I was not always blind."
Dick lingered on, feeling that he ought to go. The feeling became more absolute when the Teutonic servant came in with the information that his master was much better, and had gone to bed. He hinted that under the circumstances his kind young friend would excuse him. The dismissal was polite enough, but it was none the less complete and final. There was even no excuse left for calling.
"We are very quiet people," Mary said, as if she could actually read the thoughts of her visitor. "Believe me, I am more than grateful for your kindness to-night. You are a gentleman, and you will understand."
She came forward and held out her hand. Dick held it with a certain longing at his heart. The pathetic beauty of that sightless face stirred him strangely. It was not Mary's beauty alone, but her helplessness, that moved him. And she seemed to be utterly lonely.
"Good-night," he said; "there need be no obligation on your side. Good-night."
"Good-night, and a thousand thanks. Do you like flowers as well as I do? Let me give you a few of my favorite violets."
She walked rapidly to a vase and took out a fragrant mass of purple bloom. Without the slightest hesitation she picked up an envelope—one of the transparent grease-proof kind that proofs of photographs are sent in—and placed the blossoms in it.
It seemed hard to credit the fact that she was sightless.
"There!" she said, quite gaily. "A little trifle to remember me by. Good-night."
Dick was well out into the square before he could think of a suitable reply. Truly it had been a night of strange adventures. Not the least strange thing was that the scene of these happenings had been all in the Cambria Square flats. Stevenson felt strangely alert and wide awake as he put his latchkey in the door.
Molly was awaiting him anxiously. She looked almost pitifully into his cheerful face.
"I began to imagine all sorts of dreadful things," she said. "You have never been out so late before without letting me know. When you have had your supper—"
Dick stooped and kissed the pretty speaker. Really, Molly was a very pretty girl with her delicate coloring and high-bred face.
"Thoughtful girl," he said. "Always thinking of others first. My dear Molly, I have supped on superb chicken and salad and claret, such as Ouida's guardsmen would not disdain to drink. I partook of it in a perfect bower of bliss filled with flowers and priceless works of art, and in the company of the most lovely girl I have ever seen in all my life. I walked into the prosaic streets of London and suddenly found myself plunged into the Arabian Nights."
"Always in good spirits," Molly murmured. "But to be more practical. There is nothing of the Haroun al Raschid about our landlord."
"The landlord will be paid, Molly. I took my courage in both hands and went to see Mr. Spencer. He gave me an order for the money, which is at present in my pocket, and, what is more, he asked me to call upon him to-morrow night, when he as good as promised me regular work to do. Think of it, Molly; a cottage in the country where we can breathe the pure air and grow our own flowers."
Molly began to cry quietly. Not even good kind old Dick knew what she had suffered here. She wiped her eyes presently and called herself a goose.
"I suppose I'm run down," she said, in extenuation. "And now tell me all about those wonderful adventures of yours."
Dick launched out into a graphic account of all that he had seen or heard. Molly's pretty face was aglow with interest. She had never heard anything like it before out of the pages of a book. She took the packet of violets presently and quietly removed them from the envelope.
"Why, there is something inside here!" she cried.
It was the proof of a photograph still unmounted. A pretty girl with great pathetic eyes, taken with a background of palms and flowers.
"Why, it's Miss Mary herself," Dick cried. "The photo must have been taken in the Cambria square drawing-room, and this odd proof must have escaped attention in the envelope. Now tell me candidly, Molly, did you ever see a more lovely face in all your life?"
Molly looked up with a dazed expression.
"Why, I know her," she whispered. "I recognised her in a moment. You have heard me speak of my old schoolfellow, Mary Gay."
V. — THE MOTH CATCHER.
Dick Stevenson nodded approvingly.
"I shall make a capital story out of this," he said. "One smiles at this kind of thing in books, and yet more remarkable events are chronicled in the papers every day. But isn't she lovely, Molly?"
Molly laid the photograph carefully on the table. The more she looked at it the more she was drawn and fascinated.
"It is a pretty episode," she said, "but only an episode, after all. I don't see how you are going to follow up the acquaintance, Dick. The poor girl is blind, and never goes out; the way you were dismissed was a pretty strong hint not to call again. And yet I should like to see Mary once more."
In his heart of hearts Dick was telling himself that this thing should be done. What was the use of being an author with all a novelist's imagination if one could not scheme some ingenious plan or other? He lighted a cigarette over the evil-smelling lamp with a thoughtful air. Somebody was knocking at the door.
"Come in," Molly said; "it can be nobody but Herr Greigstein."
A small, stout man, with close-cut hair and enormous moustache came into the room. He had a high, broad forehead and a magnificent pair of flashing eyes that seemed to be marred by spectacles. There was a suggestion of power about this man of strong intellectual force and determination. For the most part he was smiling and loquacious; he possessed a boyish flow of animal spirits, belied now and again by a quick-flashing glance, and a gathering of deep-set eyebrows. For the rest, Max Greigstein was a lodger on the top floor of the Pant-street house, and he was generally supposed to be a German master in a North London school.
"I am late," he said, breezily, "but I come with news of the best. You remember, Herr Dick, I give you certain information about German anarchists in London. You put him in the form of some articles for a friend of mine, who has a paper in Berlin. My friend, he sends me eleven pounds for those pen pictures and asks, like Oliver Twist, for more, therefore, we divide the money as arranged, and when landlord he come to-morrow he grovel and eat dust before you. Behold, the little fairies that make sad hearts light!"
With something of the air of a conjurer and something of his swiftness, Greigstein laid some gold coins on the little table. His tongue had no pause, his restless dark eyes seemed as if seeking for something. For all his friendship and his many little kindnesses, Dick rather disliked Greigstein. He admitted the fact with shame, but there it was. He knew the little German scientist to be miserably poor; still he had played the good fairy like this often before.
"Here is the beginning of fame and fortune," he cried. "You grow rich, you marry a beautiful and talented young lady, and in the course of time—Gott in Himmel, what is this? where did it come from?"
The man's whole manner changed, there was quick command in his tone. He laid a strong brown finger on the photograph lying upwards on the table. He might have been a general who finds a fault in some strategic scheme, a lawyer who at length finds the weak spot in the witness's armor. His eyes flashed with strange brilliancy behind his glasses.
"I cannot tell you," Dick said coldly. "That proof came into my hands by the merest accident. It is no business of mine—or yours."
Greigstein waved the whole thing aside with a quick motion of his hand. The next moment he was chatting gaily of moths and butterflies. It was his own great hobby—that and science. There was a new moth that Dick must see, a new moth captured in the gardens of a London square.
"I catch him in a square," he cried excitedly. "I make friends with all the square keepers for miles around, and they let me go into the gardens when the world is dark and quiet. And I get my new moth. I take him to South Kensington, and they say he is but, Callimorpha Lecontei. Ach, the fools!"
Dick listened more or less vaguely. He had heard all about those nocturnal rambles before.
"Some day you listen to my theories," Greigstein rabbled on. It seemed to Dick that he was keeping his eyes too scrupulously averted from the table and the photograph. "Again there was the new clouded moth which I found at Stanmere. Some day, if I am lucky, I retire to Stanmere. It is the paradise of the entomologist. Herr Dick, do you know that I was at Stanmere last week?"
"You were lucky," Dick said, with a sigh.
"Even so, I was on the lake. The family were away from home. Strange that I should come and take rooms under the very roof of young people who had been born and bred at Stanmere. There are no dragon-flies like those on the lake yonder. I should never tire of Stanmere."
"I may never see the dear old place again," Dick said, regretfully. "I'd give a great deal to have a month there now, to lie in the bracken under the old park oaks, or to drift amongst the water-lilies in a punt. Fancy having a day with those trout once more! My good friend, if you don't stop talking about Stanmere at once, I shall be constrained to throw a book at you."
Greigstein would take himself off at once. It was getting very late, and he had some work to do before he went to bed. Meanwhile, would Herr Dick do some more of those brilliant articles? In a whirl of words the German departed, leaving his spectacles behind him. Dick noticed them presently.
"I don't believe he wants glasses at all," he said. "He is a Socialist. Meanwhile, I'll take his glasses, lest he should come back again. I'm too tired to swim in another sea of words to-night."
Dick slipped quietly up the stairs of the quiet house. Greigstein's bedroom was slightly open, and Dick looked in. The gas was lighted by the dressing-table. The German stood there in immaculate evening dress, his moustaches waxed. To Dick's utter astonishment he saw that across the broad glistening expanse of shirtfront was a riband, and round the powerful throat a jewelled order was suspended. A silk-lined evening cloak lay across a chair.
Dick softly retired with the spectacles in his pocket. He heard the front door close presently, and footsteps going down the street. And on the table lay the photograph of the girl with the sad blue eyes!
VI. — THE RESTORED PHOTOGRAPH.
When Dick came down to breakfast Greigstein had departed, ostensibly on his scholastic duties. He had come in for the missing spectacles, Molly said. He had professed himself to be quite lost without them.
"That's all rubbish," Dick said, unfeelingly. "The fellow has no need for glasses. You may shake your head, Molly, but I will prove it to you."
In a few words Dick told the story of his discovery. Molly scented romance. They had evidently made the acquaintance of a disguised German nobleman.
"More likely a police spy," Dick laughed. "You need not go, Molly; I couldn't possibly do any work this morning. With that fateful interview with Mr. Spencer, of 'The Record,' before my eyes, I couldn't do a stroke."
He presently wandered out aimlessly. Though he had risen very late, the day seemed to drag on. It was hot, and the streets shimmered in the sunshine. Dick took a very frugal lunch at a cheap restaurant, and then turned for distraction to the early edition of the evening papers. The 'St. James's Gazette' and 'Pall Mall' and 'Globe' seemed to have nothing in them that he had not seen before. Over his cigarette he fell back on the advertisements.
There was something interesting at last. Dick recognised with a thrill that it concerned himself. It was in the agony column of 'The Globe.'
"Will the gentleman who took from 117 Cambria Square, last night, the proof of a photograph accidentally left in an envelope containing violets, kindly return the same to the above address without delay?"
Here was something to do at any rate. And, better than that, here was a good chance of seeing the girl with the pathetic eyes again. It would be a wrench to give up the photograph, but that would have to be done in any case. The precious picture was carefully stowed away in Dick's pocket-book.
He hurried off in the direction of Cambria Square. Not till he found himself confronted by the hall porter did he recollect that he had not the faintest idea whom to ask for.
"There is an advertisement in an evening paper," he stammered. "I was here last night; I had the good fortune to—"
"That's alright," the porter cut Dick short. "One of the servants told me in case anybody called. If you've got the photo, sir, I'll take it up."
Dick hesitated. He had looked forward to something more romantic than this. He might be allowed to go up, he suggested, but the porter cut him short again by touching a bell and growling something hoarsely up a tube. In response the broad-faced, Teutonic-looking man who had acted as a kind of nurse to Dick's strange acquaintance of the night before, came down in the lift and touched his forehead respectfully.
"My mistress expected you, sir," he said. "You have the photograph?"
Dick could not deny it. He produced the picture grudgingly. It was absurd, of course, but it was a wrench to hand it over.
"My mistress has been in great distress," the German said. "I will not disguise from you, sir, that my employer has moods when he is not quite responsible for his actions. You found him last night in one of them. He has outbreaks over other things. For instance, my young lady thought she would like to surprise her father by having her photograph taken. There was but one proof, and only one plate exposed. I have rarely seen my employer so terribly upset over anything, which was strange, considering that the photograph was actually taken in the house. My young lady promised to destroy the proof, but by mistake she left it in the photographer's envelope. She found that out early this morning. She is greatly desirous that you will say nothing of what has happened."
"Of course not," Dick replied.
The mystery was getting deeper.
"If I may take the liberty of seeing her for a few moments—"
"No," the other said, with a cold curtness that brought the blood into Dick's face. "It is absolutely impossible. You must not come here again. I do not wish to be rude, sir, only I would urge you, both for your own sake and the sake of others, not to come here again."
Mr. Spencer had not yet arrived when he reached the counting-house. His young friend of the previous night gave him an encouraging smile. Presently Dick found himself waiting nervously in an outer office, where the lad who had previously given him Mr. Spencer's address had ushered him.
"Just a moment," Dick said, hurriedly. "Can you tell me anything about your chief? I only saw him in the dark last night."
"That is a peculiarity of his," the young clerk replied. "He often does that when he sees strangers here. It is some fad of his of judging people by their voices. But as he has met you once he won't do that again. Another peculiarity is that he never comes here till dusk. Not one of us ever saw Mr. Spencer here in the daytime."
"But you find him a good and kind employer?"
"Oh, very. He is the right class of philanthropist. He never appears to, and yet he does a tremendous deal of good. If he takes a fancy to you it is your own fault if you don't succeed here. He never spoke to me for months, and then I found that he knew all my affairs, and what my father was, and all about my home at Stanmere, and everything. There's his bell."
The speaker turned away, to return a moment later with the information that Mr. Spencer was ready to see his visitor. It was a small, dark-papered room, with one brilliant light gleaming on a little table covered with paper. A man sat there who looked up and smiled at Dick genially, then he looked down again, as if giving his visitor time to recover himself.
It was as well that he did, well that he failed to see the blank amazement on the face of Dick Stevenson. He placed his hands on the back of his chair to steady himself from falling. For there, seated opposite him, as if utterly unconscious that anything out of the common had happened, was the very man whose life Dick had saved in Cambria Square last night.
Could it be acting? No, it was impossible. The man by the table evidently had not the faintest idea that he and Dick met before. This kindly noble-looking face was calm and placid. Evidently the events of last night had been absolutely and entirely wiped from his memory.
"Are you unwell?" he asked, in a considerate tone. "I am afraid you are in trouble. If you will only make a friend of me—"
"A passing faintness," Dick stammered. "A queer lapse of memory."
Mr. Spencer looked up, a feeling expression dimmed his eyes.
"I understand," he said. "Nobody better. I am occasionally troubled by the same thing myself. My dear boy, pray sit down and let us get to business."
VII. — GREIGSTEIN.
The keen eye of a detective would have noticed certain anomalies in Herr Max Greigstein's modest sitting-room. For instance, the table linen was very fine, the cutlery and plate, which the German preferred to clean himself, were of silver and fine steel mounted on ivory. These are things not unusually found in obscure bed-sitting rooms at nine shillings a week, and though the once exclusive cigarette is now given over to the multitude, they do not usually smoke a 'Nestor' at eleven shillings a hundred, such as Greigstein had between his lips at present.
The modest breakfast things were pushed away, and Greigstein was frowning over his ruminative cigarette. There was an excuse for his laziness this morning, as he had no scholastic engagement on Saturday. Greigstein was thinking aloud—a favorite habit of his—but the door was closed.
"You are a fool," he told himself, "you think you have yourself well in hand, but that is where you make the mistake. Come, why did you let Dick Stevenson see that you were interested in that photograph?"
Greigstein frowned at himself in a little mirror opposite.
"That is a clever boy," he went on, "he has intuition. Only he has the bad taste not to like Herr Greigstein. He will tell me nothing about the original of that fascinating photo. With a lad of meaner instincts I should try bribery. But I shall find out, yes, I shall find out."
There was a gleam in Greigstein's eyes as he spoke. A moment later he was deeply engrossed in his cases of moths and butterflies as if they were of all-absorbing interest. Then he put his breakfast things outside the door and locked it after him. He carried a net and a specimen case with the simple air of a man who is going on an innocent holiday. The door of Stevenson's sitting-room was open.
"May I come in?" Greigstein asked, and entered the room without waiting for a reply. "What is the news, my young hero? Good, I imagine, by the expression of your face. That interview with the newspaper magnate, for instance. In my mind's eye I can see Dick Stevenson, editor of 'The Times.'"
Greigstein's glasses twinkled as he spoke, and Dick was disarmed. He was in a mood to be charmed with all the world this morning. The stuffy, evil-smelling rooms in Pant-street would soon be a thing of the past. Already there were visions of a charming house in the country presided over by a sweet-faced, blue-eyed girl who was none the less beloved because she was blind.
"Three hundred a year," Dick said, with a poor assumption of indifference; "I have got an appointment on the literary staff of 'The Record.' And I shall have plenty of time for my fiction writing besides. It isn't very often that one gets a good appointment and an excellent plot of a strong novel in one week."
Greigstein's congratulations were obviously sincere. At the same time there was a strange gleam behind his spectacles. There was a story here that the German was anxious to know, otherwise Dick would have said nothing about the plot of a novel. Greigstein passed his cigarette case across the table.
"I should like to hear more of your good fortune," he said, quietly. "I am glad for your sake and the sake of your charming and most courageous sister. So your good fortune was the result of an adventure?"
"Who told you so?" Dick asked with a smile.
"Why, you did yourself. You say it is not often one gets a good appointment and a good plot in the same week. Obviously, the good fortune in your case follows the good plot—the adventure, that is. That is the way, my good friend, to write a good novel. Personal experience, nothing like personal experience. I should like very much to hear all about those personal experiences. Now my butterflies—"
"Never mind the butterflies," Dick said, hastily; falling into the trap that Greigstein had laid for him. "But I'll tell you my adventure if you like."
Not all of it, Greigstein told himself. For instance, he knew perfectly well that he would hear nothing as to the photograph and its charming original, and in this the German was perfectly right, for Mary Gay was not mentioned.
"I think I have really interested you," Dick said, presently.
Greigstein nodded. Dick would have been fairly startled to know how deeply his companion was interested. All the same, he had wisely said nothing as to the identity between Mr. Spencer and the excited stranger in Cambria Square. It was this half-truth that so sorely puzzled Greigstein and led him into so wide a labyrinth later on.
