George Street until she entered the bustle ofParliament Street. Here, fearing she might escape me, I was compelledto approach nearer, at risk of being discovered, and even then was stillutterly undecided how to act. My first impulse was, to walk up to her,introduce myself and tell her of the circumstances in which I haddiscovered her in that house, apparently lifeless. On reflection,however, I judged that by her presence in the park she was acquaintedwith the assassin or his associate, and that by keeping close watch uponher I might discover more than by at once exposing my hand. Thereseemed in her very appearance, in that deep mourning, something grim,weird, mysterious.
At the corner of Parliament Street, outside the steamy tea-rooms, shestood for a few moments gazing anxiously up and down, as if in search ofan omnibus. A man approached her, crying the second edition of the_Comet_, a copy of which she purchased eagerly, folding it small andplacing it within the folds of her sunshade.
Why had she done that? I wondered. Did she expect to find in thatpaper an exposure of the secret tragedy of the previous night?
I stood reading some excursion time-tables outside the railwaybooking-office on the opposite corner, watching her furtively. From hermanner I could plainly see how nervous and excited she was.
After some hesitation she turned and walked along to King Street, whereshe entered the telegraph office and dispatched a telegram. Sheevidently knew that part of London, or she would not have known thewhereabouts of that office hidden down the short side street. I waitedin Parliament Street until her return, and unnoticed strode back behindher to the corner of Bridge Street, where she at length entered a taxiand drove off.
From the telegram I might, I thought, obtain some clue, but, alas!telegrams are secret, and I should be unable to get a glance at it. Toapply at the office would be useless. The police might perhaps obtainpermission to read it, but so many dispatches are daily handed in therethat to trace any particular one is always a difficult matter.
I was divided in my impulses. Should I go back to King Street and makeinstant application regarding the telegram, so that it might be markedand easily traced afterwards, or should I follow the taxi which at thatmoment was crossing Westminster Bridge?
I decided upon the latter course, and jumping into another motor,pointed out the taxi I desired to follow.
Our drive was not a long one--only to Waterloo Station, the busyplatform of the loop line. Here I could easily conceal myself in thecrowd of persons every moment arriving and departing, and as I stoodnear the booking-office, I heard her ask for a first-class ticket toFulwell, a rather pleasant and comparatively new suburban districtbetween Twickenham and Hampton.
The Shepperton train was already in the station, therefore she at oncetook her seat, while I entered another compartment in the front of thetrain. I did this in order to be able to alight quickly, leave thestation before her, and thus avoid recognition. The journey occupiedabout three-quarters of a hour, but at length we drew into the littlerural station situated in a deep cutting, and ere the train stopped Isprang out, passed the barrier and leaped up the steps, escaping ere thegate was closed by the ticket inspector. By this quick movement Igained several minutes upon her, for the barrier was closed, andalighting passengers were not allowed to leave before the train hadagain moved off.
The high road from London opened right and left, one way leading back toStrawberry Hill, the other out to New Hampton. I felt certain that shewould walk in the direction of the latter place, therefore I started offbriskly until I came to a small wayside inn, which I entered, and goingto the window of the bar-parlour called for refreshment, at the sametime keeping a keen look-out for her passing.
Several persons who had come by train hurried by, and at first Ibelieved she had taken the opposite direction. But at last she came,holding her skirts daintily and picking her way, for it had been rainingand the path was muddy. She, however, was not alone.
By her side walked a young rather handsome man about twenty-five, whowore tennis flannels, and who had apparently met her at the station.She was laughing merrily as she passed, while he strode on with a light,airy footstep indicative of happiness.
"There's a lady just gone past," I exclaimed quickly, turning to theinnkeeper's wife, who had just brought in my glass of beer. "I oftensee her about. Do you know who she is?"
With woman's curiosity she went to the door and looked out after her.
"Oh, that's Lady Glaslyn's daughter," she said.
"Lady Glaslyn's daughter!" I echoed in surprise.
"Yes, it's Miss Eva, and the young gent with her is Fred Langdale, theson of the great sugar-refiner up in London. They both live here, closeby. Lady Glaslyn, a widow, is not at all well off, and lives along atThe Hollies, the big white house with a garden in front on this side ofthe way, while the Langdales have a house further on the road toHampton, overlooking Bushey Park."
"Oh, that's who they are!" I said quite unconcernedly, but secretlydelighted with this information. "And who is this Lady Glaslyn? Hasshe lived here long?"
"Nearly a year now," the good woman answered. Then, confidentially, sheadded, "They are come-down swells, I fancy. That they've got no moneyis very evident, for the tradespeople can't get their bills paid at all.Why, only last week, Jim Horton, the gas company's man, was in here,and I heard him tell his labourers that he'd got orders to cut the gasoff at The Hollies because the bill wasn't paid."
"Then they must be pretty hard up," I observed. "Many aristocraticfamilies come down in the world."
The name of Glaslyn puzzled me. It sounded familiar.
"Who was her ladyship's husband? Do you know?"
"No, sir. I've heard several stories. One was how that he was abaronet who led an exploring party somewhere in South America, and diedof fever, and another that he was a shady individual who was connectedwith companies in the City. But nobody here knows the truth, I think."
A glance at Debrett or Burke when I returned to my office would quicklysettle that point, I reflected; therefore, having obtained all theinformation I could from her I wished her good-day, and left.
Along the Hampton Road I strolled in the direction the pair had taken,and in the distance saw the mysterious Eva take leave of her companionand enter a house, while he lifted his hat and walked on. I proceededslowly, passing The Hollies on the opposite side of the way. It was arather large place, decidedly old-fashioned, standing back in its owngrounds and approached by a carriage drive, a three-storied redbrickhouse with those plain windows surrounded by white wooden beams of theearly Georgian era. In the old-world garden, hidden by a high wall,grew a profusion of roses and wallflowers which diffused a sweet scentas I passed, and half the house seemed hidden by ivy and creepers. Thesmall lawn in front, with its laurels and monkey-trees, were well kept,and the place seemed spick and span, and altogether comfortable.
As I passed I fancied I saw a black-robed figure standing at one of theground-floor windows. What if she recognised me? I dared not to lookaround again, but kept on my way, walking through New Hampton, past thelong wall of Bushey Park, until I came to Old Hampton town, whence, halfan hour later, I took train back to Waterloo.
I had, at any rate, made one discovery, which was in itself absolutelybewildering. At first I had doubted that this sweet-faced, clear-eyedwoman was actually identical with the dead form that lay back in herchair on the previous night. I believe that she only bore some strikingresemblance, heightened, perhaps, by the agitated state of my mind. Butall doubts on this point had been set at rest by one fact. The womanwhose cold hand I had grasped had worn in her bodice a brooch of unusualpattern--a tiny enamelled playing-card, a five of diamonds quaintly setin gold--and this same ornament, striking on account of its originalityof design, was at the throat of Eva Glaslyn, showing plainly against thedead black of her dress.
The mystery was certainly most remarkable. In wonder how Boyd hadfared, or whether Patterson had been prosecuting inquiries in otherdirections, I went straight to Kensingto
n from Waterloo, and found theinspector in his room over the police-station. It was a small apartmentwith drab-painted walls, plainly furnished as police-stations are. Thetable whereat he sat was littered with papers, mostly pale straw-colour,and on the mantelshelf stood an interesting collection of photographs ofpeople "wanted," each bearing a number in red ink corresponding to theindex book, wherein a short account of their crime was recorded.
"Why," he cried, as I entered, "wherever have you been? I've beenhunting high and low for you."
"I've been down to Hampton," I laughed.
"To Hampton!" he echoed. "What on earth have you been doing downthere?"
"Making inquiries," I answered, affecting an air of unconcern. "I'vemade a rather queer discovery."
"What is it?" he asked, as I