The Wiles of the Wicked

KensingtonGardens, and wandered until I came out into the High Street by that samegate where she had once discovered the dead man's pencil-case in mypossession.

  As I stood there in the full light of that glaring afternoon, the wholescene came back vividly to me. She had known that man who had been sofoully murdered in her mother's home. I must, at all costs, find her,clear myself, and elucidate the truth.

  Hence, with that object, I hailed another cab, and, giving the mandirections to drive to The Boltons, sat back, eager and wondering.

  As the conveyance drew up my heart gave a leap for joy, for I saw by theblinds that the house was still occupied.

  I sprang out and rang the visitors' bell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

  THE MASTER HAND.

  A man-servant answered my summons.

  "Mrs Anson?" I inquired.

  "Mrs Anson is out of town, sir," answered the man. "The house is let."

  "Furnished?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is your mistress at home?" I inquired.

  "I don't know, sir," answered the man, diplomatically.

  "Oh, of course!" I exclaimed, taking out a card. It was the first Ifound within my cigarette-case, and was intentionally not my own. "Willyou take this to your mistress, and ask her if she will kindly spare mea few moments. I am a friend of Mrs Anson's."

  "I'll see if she's at home, sir," said the man, dubiously; and then,asking me into the entrance-hall, he left me standing while he went insearch of his mistress.

  That hall was the same down which I had groped my way when blind. I sawthe closed door of the drawing-room, and knew that within that room theyoung man whose name I knew not had been foully done to death. Therewas the very umbrella stand from which I had taken the walking-stick,and the door of the little-used library, which I had examined on thatnight when I had dined there at Mrs Anson's invitation--the last nightof my existence as my real self.

  The man returned in a few moments and invited me into a room on theleft--the morning-room, I supposed it to be--saying:

  "My mistress is at home, sir, and will see you."

  I had not remained there more than a couple of minutes before a youngishwoman of perhaps thirty or so entered, with a rather distant bow. Shewas severely dressed in black; dark-haired, and not very prepossessing.Her lips were too thick to be beautiful, and her top row of teeth seemedtoo much in evidence. Her face was not exactly ugly, but she was by nomeans good-looking.

  "I have to apologise," I said, rising and bowing. "I understand thatMrs Anson has let her house, and I thought you would kindly give me heraddress. I wish to see her on a most pressing personal matter."

  She regarded me with some suspicion, I thought.

  "If you are a friend of Mrs Anson's, would it not be better if youwrote to her and addressed the letter here? Her letters are alwaysforwarded," she answered.

  She was evidently a rather shrewd and superior person.

  "Well, to tell the truth," I said, "I have reasons for not writing."

  "Then I must regret, sir, that I am unable to furnish you with heraddress," she responded, somewhat stiffly.

  "I have been absent from London for six years," I exclaimed. "It isbecause of that long absence that I prefer not to write."

  "I fear that I cannot assist you," she replied briefly.

  There was a strange, determined look in her dark-grey eyes. She did notseem a person amenable to argument.

  "But it is regarding an urgent and purely private affair that I wish tosee Mrs Anson," I said.

  "I have nothing whatever to do with the private affairs of Mrs Anson,"she replied. "I merely rent this house from her, and, in justice toher, it is not likely that I give the address to every chance caller."

  "I am no chance caller," I responded. "During her residence here sixyears ago I was a welcome guest at her table."

  "Six years ago is a long time. You may, for aught I know, not be sowelcome now."

  Did she, I wondered, speak the truth?

  "You certainly speak very plainly, madam," I answered, rising stiffly."If I have put you to any inconvenience I regret it. I can, no doubt,obtain from some other person the information I require."

  "Most probably you can, sir," she answered, in a manner quite unruffled."I tell you that if you write I shall at once forward your letter toher. More than that I cannot do."

  "I presume you are acquainted with Miss Mabel Anson?" I inquired.

  She smiled with some sarcasm.

  "The Anson family do not concern me in the least, sir," she replied,also rising as sign that my unfruitful interview was at an end. Mentionof Mabel seemed to have irritated her, and although I plied her withfurther questions, she would tell me absolutely nothing.

  When I bowed and took my leave I fear that I did not show her very muchpoliteness.

  In my eagerness for information, her hesitation to give me Mrs Anson'saddress never struck me as perfectly natural. She, of course, did notknow me, and her offer to forward a letter was all that she could do insuch circumstances. Yet at the time I did not view it in that light,but regarded the tenant of that house of mystery as an ill-mannered andextremely disagreeable person.

  In despair I returned to St James's Street and entered my club, theDevonshire. Several men whom I did not know greeted me warmly in thesmoking-room, and, from their manner, I saw that in my lost years I hadevidently not abandoned that institution. They chatted to me aboutpolitics and stocks, two subjects upon which I was perfectly ignorant,and I was compelled to exercise considerable tact and ingenuity in orderto avoid betraying the astounding blank in my mind.

  After a restless hour I drove back westward and called at old Channing'sin Cornwall Gardens in an endeavour to learn Mabel's address. Thecolonel was out, but I saw Mrs Channing, and she could, alas! tell menothing beyond the fact that Mrs Anson and her daughter had been abroadfor three years past--where, she knew not. They had drifted apart, shesaid, and never now exchanged letters.

  "Is Mabel married?" I inquired as carelessly as I could, although inbreathless eagerness.

  "I really don't know," she responded. "I have heard some talk of thelikelihood of her marrying, but whether she has done so I am unaware."

  "And the man whom rumour designated as her husband? Who was he?" Iinquired quickly.

  "A young nobleman, I believe."

  "You don't know his name?"

  "No. It was mentioned at the time, but it has slipped my memory. Onetakes no particular notice of teacup gossip."

  "Well, Mrs Channing," I said confidently, "I am extremely desirous ofdiscovering the whereabouts of Mabel Anson. I want to see her upon arather curious matter which closely concerns herself. Can you tell meof any one who is intimate with them?"

  "Unfortunately, I know of no one," she answered. "The truth is, thatthey left London quite suddenly; and, indeed, it was a matter forsurprise that they neither paid farewell visits nor told any of theirfriends where they were going."

  "Curious," I remarked--"very curious!"

  Then there was, I reflected, apparently some reason for the presenttenant at The Boltons refusing the address.

  "Yes," Mrs Channing went on, "it was all very mysterious. Nobody knowsthe real truth why they went abroad so suddenly and secretly. It wasbetween three and four years ago now, and nothing, to my knowledge, hassince been heard of them."

  "Very mysterious," I responded. "It would seem almost as though theyhad some reason for concealing their whereabouts."

  "That's just what lots of people have said. You may depend upon it thatthere is something very mysterious in it all. We were such very closefriends for years, and it is certainly strange that Mrs Anson has neverconfided in me the secret of her whereabouts."

  I remembered the old colonel's strange warning on that evening long ago,when I had first met Mabel at his table. What, I wondered, could heknow of them to their detriment?

  I remained for a quarter of an hour longer. The colonel's wi
fe was fullof the latest tittle-tattle, as the wife of an _ex-attache_ always is.It is part of the diplomatic training to be always well-informed in thesayings and doings of our neighbours; and as I allowed her to gossip onshe revealed to me many things of which I was in ignorance. Nellie, herdaughter, had, it appeared, married the son of a Newcastle shipowner acouple of years before, and now lived near Berwick-on-Tweed.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I asked whether she knew MissWells or the man Hickman, who had been my fellow-guests on that nightwhen I had dined at The Boltons.

  "I knew a Miss Wells--a very pronounced old maid, who was a friend ofhers," answered Mrs Channing. "But she caught