An Eye for an Eye

by William Le Queux

satisfaction at hearing news of methrough a mutual friend. Such a letter struck me as rather strange. Icould only account for it by the fact that she desired to resume ouracquaintanceship, and that this was a woman's diplomatic way of openingnegotiations. All women are born diplomatists, and woman's wit andpowers of perception are far more acute than man's.

  The letter brought back to me vividly the memory of that sweet, merryface beneath the sailor hat, the wealth of dark hair, the laughing eyesso dark and brilliant, the small white hands, and their wrists confinedby their golden bangles. Yes, Mary Blain was uncommonly good-looking.Her face was one in ten thousand. But she was utterly heartless. Irecollected how, when with her mother she had spent a summer atEastbourne, what a sensation her remarkable beauty caused at Sundayparade on the Esplanade. She was lovely without consciousness of it,utterly ingenuous, and as ignorant of the world's wickedness as a child.The daughter of a wealthy City man who combined company-promoting withwine-importing, she had from childhood been nursed in the lap of luxury,and being the only child, was the idol of her parents. Their countryhouse at Harwell, near Didcot, was in my father's parish, and from thetime when her nurse used to bring her to the Rectory until thatwell-remembered evening when in the leafy by-lane I had for the lasttime turned my back upon her with a hasty word of denunciation, we hadbeen closest friends. She had played me false. My hopes had beenwrecked on Life's strange and trackless sea, and now whenever I thoughtof her it was only in bitterness. I have more than a suspicion that oldMr. Blain did not approve of our close acquaintanceship, knowing that Iwas a mere journalist with an almost untaxable income; nevertheless, shehad continued to meet me, and many were the happy hours we spenttogether wandering through that charming country that skirts the upperreaches of the Thames.

  In order to see her I used frequently to run down from London to my homeon Saturdays and remain till Mondays. With her mother she sat in herseat in front of the Rectory pew, and as she walked down the aisle herface would be illumined by a glad light of welcome. How restful werethose Sundays after the wear and tear of London life! How peaceful thedays in that sleepy little village hidden away in a leafy hollow threemiles from the Great Western line! After we had parted, however, I didnot go home for six months. Then, on inquiry, I found that the Blainshad sold their place, presumably because they were in want of money, forit was said that they had taken a smaller house facing the Thames, nearLaleham, that village a little beyond Shepperton, where in thechurchyard lies Matthew Arnold. From all accounts old Blain had lostheavily in speculation and had been compelled to sell his carriages andhorses, dispose of many of his pictures, and even part with some of theLouis Seize furniture at Shenley Court, where they had lived. This was,of course, indicative of a very severe reverse of fortune.

  Since those hours of Mary's love and her subsequent falseness, my lifehad been a queer series of ups and downs, as it must ever be injournalistic London. Many dreary days of changeful care had come andgone since then.

  I sat silent, thinking, with her letter still open in my hand.

  "Why are you so confoundedly glum, old man?" Dick asked. "What's yourscreed about? Duns in the offing?"

  "No. It's nothing," I answered evasively, smiling.

  "Then don't look so down in the mouth," he urged. "Have a peg, and pullyourself together." He had been in India, and consequently termed awhisky-and-soda a "peg." The origin of that expression is a littleabstruse, but is supposed to refer pointedly to the pegs in one'scoffin.

  I thrust the letter into my pocket, helped myself to a drink, and lit acigarette.

  "It's a really first-class sensation," Dick said, again referring to thecurious affair. "Pity I can't publish something of it to-morrow. It'sa good thing chucked away."

  "Yes," I replied. "But Patterson has some object in imposing secrecy onus."

  "Of course," he answered thoughtfully.

  There was a pause. We both smoked on. Not a sound penetrated theresave the solemn ticking of the clock and the distant strains of a pianoin some man's rooms across the square.

  "Do you know, Frank," my companion said after some reflection, andlooking at me with a rather curious expression--"do you know that I havesome strange misgivings?"

  "Misgivings!" I echoed. "Of what?"

  "Well," he said, "did anything strike you as strange in Patterson'smanner?"

  "To tell the truth," I answered, "something did. His attitude wasunusual--quite unusual, to-night."

  "He's a funny Johnnie. That story of the snake on the pavement--isn'tit rather too strange to be believed?"

  "At first sight it appears extraordinary, but remember that in thelaboratory upstairs we found other snakes. The occupier of the houseevidently went in for the reptiles as pets."

  "I quite agree with you there," he said. "But there are certaincircumstances in the case which have aroused my suspicion, old chap. Ofall the curious cases I've ever investigated while I've been on the_Comet_, this is the most astounding from every point of view, and I,for one, shan't rest until we've fully solved the problem."

  "In that you'll have my heartiest assistance," I said. "All the time Ican spare away from the office I'll devote to helping you."

  "Good," Dick exclaimed heartily, refilling his pipe. "Between us weought to find out something, for you and I can get at the bottom ofthings as soon as most people."

  "The two strangest features of this case," I pointed out, "are first thetelephonic message, and secondly, the disappearance of the first womanwe found."

  "And those cards!"

  "And that penny wrapped so carefully in paper!" I added. "Yes, thereare fully a dozen extraordinary features connected with the affair. Thewhole business is an absolute puzzle."

  "Tell me, old chap," Dick said, after a pause, "what causes you tosuspect Patterson?"

  "I don't suspect him," I answered quickly. "No. I merely think that hehas not told the exact truth of the first discovery of the crime, that'sall."

  "Exactly my own opinion," responded Dick. "He's concealing some veryimportant fact from us--for what purpose we can't yet tell. There'smore in this than we surmise. Of that I feel absolutely confident."

  "The snake story is a little too good," I said, rather surprised thathis suspicions should have been aroused, for I had not related to him myconversation with Patterson and his very lame excuse for not making areport of the discovery at the police-station. What had aroused Dick'ssuspicions I was extremely puzzled to know. But he was a shrewd, cleverfellow, whose greatest delight was the investigation of crime and theobtaining of those "revelations" which middle-class London so eagerlydevours.

  "A very happy invention of an ingenious mind, my dear fellow," exclaimedthe Mystery-monger. "Depend upon it, Patterson, being already awarethat there were snakes in that house, invented the story, knowing thatwhen the place was searched it would appear quite circumstantial."

  "Then you think that he's not in absolute ignorance of who lived there?"I exclaimed, surprised at my friend's startling theory.

  Dick nodded.

  "I shouldn't be surprised if it be proved that he knew all along who thedead man is."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I noticed that he never once looked at that man's face. It washe who covered it with a handkerchief, as though the sight of the whitecountenance appalled him."

  "Come come," I said, "proceed. You'll say that he's the guilty onenext."

  "Ah! no, my dear fellow," he hastened to reassure me. "You quitemisunderstand my meaning. I hold the theory that in life these peoplewere friends of Patterson's, that's all."

  "What makes you suspect such a thing?"

  "Well, I watched our friend very closely this evening, and that's theconclusion I've arrived at."

  "You really think that he is concealing facts which might throw light onthe affair?" I exclaimed, much surprised.

  "Yes," he answered, "I feel certain of it--absolutely certain."

  CHAPTER SIX.

 
WHAT I SAW IN THE PARK.

  For a long time, sitting by the open window and looking out upon thestarry night, we discussed the grim affair in all its details. Thepiano had stopped its tinkling, a dead silence had fallen upon theold-world square, one of the relics of bygone London, and the clock uponthe hall had struck one o'clock with that solemnity which does not failto impress even the most dissipated resident of Gray's. As a bachelorabode Gray's Inn is as comfortable