peculiar is that shetook it and paid a ten-pound note as deposit without ever seeing theinterior of the premises. She told him that it was for some friends ofhers from abroad, and that they not having arrived she would sign theagreement and accept all responsibility."
"Anything else?"
"Yes," the detective replied. "She was accompanied by a young lady,whom old Tritton, the landlord, took to be her daughter. Now, tell mewhat you know."
I paused, looking at him fixedly. The disclosure that Mrs. Blain wasthe actual holder of that house of mystery was certainly startling. Itwas remarkable, too, that on the very night of the crime I shouldreceive a letter from Mary, the woman who had so long lingered in mymemory. Was that, I wondered, anything more than a mere coincidence?
"I don't know that I can tell you very much about the family," Ianswered, determined to put him off the scent and make inquiries myself."They were much respected when at Shenley, where they kept up a finecountry house, and entertained a great deal. They were parishioners ofmy father, therefore I went there very often."
"Do you know Mrs. Blain well?"
"Quite well."
"And her daughter?" suggested Dick, much interested. "What's she like?Pretty?"
"Passable," I answered, with affected indifference.
"Then they are not a shady family at all?" suggested the detective.
"Not in the least. That is why the fact of Mrs. Blain having taken thehouse is so surprising."
"It may have been sub-let," Cleugh observed. "Her friends from abroadmay not have arrived after all, and she might have re-let it, acircumstance which seems most likely, as no one appears to have seen herenter the place."
"At any rate it's most extraordinary," I said. Then, turning to Boyd, Iasked, "Why not leave the inquiry in that quarter to me? Knowing her, Ican obtain information far more easily than you can."
"Yes," Cleugh urged. "It would be a better course--much better."
"Very well," answered the detective, not, however, without somehesitation. "But be careful not to disclose too much. Try and find outone fact only--the reason she took the house. Leave all the rest tous."
I promised, and after drinking together over in the refreshment bar atHigh Street Station we parted, and Cleugh and I took a bus back to ourchambers.
He stopped in Holborn to buy some last editions of the papers, while Ihurried on, for, being terribly hungry, I wished to give old Mrs. Joadearly intimation of our readiness for the diurnal steak.
With my latch-key I entered our chambers. The succulent scent ofgrilled meat greeted my nostrils, and I strode eagerly forward shoutingfor the Hag.
As I entered the sitting-room I started and drew back. A quick word ofapology died from my lips, for out of our single armchair there arose atall female dark, well-fitting dress, bowing with a grace that wascharming.
I saw before me, half concealed beneath a thin black veil, a smilingface eminently pretty, a tiny mouth parted to show an even row of pearlyteeth, a countenance that was handsome in every feature.
That pair of eyes peering forth at me held me motionless, dumb. I stoodbefore my visitor, confused and speechless.
CHAPTER NINE.
THE LOVE OF LONG AGO.
There are hours in our lives which are apparently without importance,but which, nevertheless, exercise an influence on our destiny.
Little wonder was it that at this instant I stood before my visitorvoiceless in amazement, for in her erect, neat figure I recognised thebroken idol of those long-past summer days--Mary Blain.
Of all persons she was the one I most desired at that moment to meet.Her letter to me, and her presence in my chambers that evening, were twofacts that appeared pre-arranged with some ulterior motive rather thanmere coincidence. Not an hour before Boyd had made a most puzzlingstatement regarding her mother, and here she was, confronting me withthat smile I knew so well, as if anxious to make explanation.
"I believe I've startled you, Frank," she exclaimed, laughing, as sheheld out her gloved hand in greeting. "Is it so long since we met?Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but Iwanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn't youanswer my letter?"
"Forgive me," I said in excuse. "I've been busy. The life of a dailyjournalist leaves so very little time for correspondence," and I invitedher to be re-seated in our only armchair.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously.
"You men are always adepts at the art of excuse," she remarked.
She was pretty--yes, decidedly pretty. As I sat looking at her, therecame back to me vivid recollections of a day that was dead, a day whenwe had exchanged vows of undying affection and had wandered in secretarm-in-arm along those quiet leafy lanes. She was a girl then, and Inot much more than a stripling youth. But we had both grown older now,and other ideas had sprung up in our minds, other jealousies and otherloves. Almost four whole years had passed since I had last seen her.She had grown a little more plump and matronly, and in her dark,luminous eyes was a look more serious than in her old hoydenish days atHarwell. How time flies! It did not seem four years since that autumnevening when we parted in the golden sunset. Yet how great had thechange been in the fortunes of her purse-proud family, and even in myown life.
There was no love between us now. None. The days were long-past sincea woman's touch and words would make me colour like a girl. Even thismeeting when she pressed my hand and her eyelids fluttered, did notre-stir within me the chord of love so long untouched. I had heard ofher only as a flirt and fortune-hunter, and had read in the newspapers aparagraph announcing her engagement to the elder son of a millionaireironfounder of Wigan. Nevertheless, a month ago the papers contained afurther paragraph stating that the marriage arranged "would not takeplace." Since we had parted she had evidently been through many loveadventures. Still, she was nevertheless uncommonly good-looking, with agrace of manner that was perfect.
"I've often wondered, Frank, what had become of you," she said, leaningher elbow on the table, raising her veil and looking straight into myeyes. "We were such real good friends long ago that I've never failedto entertain pleasant recollections of our friendship. Once or twiceI've heard of you through your people, and have now and then read yourarticles in the magazines. Somehow I've felt a keen desire for a longtime past to see you and have a chat."
"I feel honoured," I answered, perhaps a trifle sarcastically, for minewas but a bitter recollection. "It is certainly pleasant to think thatone is remembered after these years." Then, in order to add irony to mywords, I added: "I've heard you are engaged."
"I was," she responded, glancing at me sharply. "But it is broken off."
"You found some one you liked better, I presume? It is always so."
"No, not at all," she hastened to assure me. "The fact is there wasvery little love on either side, and we parted quite amicably."
"As amicably as we did ourselves--eh?"
"No, Frank," she said with a sudden seriousness, dropping her eyes tothe table. "Do not refer to that. With years has come wisdom. We wereboth foolish, were we not?"
"Perhaps I was when I believed your vow to be a true one," I responded atrifle bitterly, for I had thought the summer of my life over and at anend.
"Ah, no!" she cried. "I did not come here to reopen an incident thathas been so long closed. You love another woman, no doubt."
"No," I answered. "I loved you once, until you forsook me. I have notloved since."
"But I was a mere girl then," she urged. "Ours was but a midsummermadness--that you'll surely admit."
I was silent. I had believed myself proof against all sentiment in thisrespect, for of late I had thought little, if at all, of my lost love.Yet alone with her at that moment all the bitter past flooded upon me,my wild passion and my shattered hopes, with a vividness that stirred upa great bitterness within me. Not that I loved her now. No. On thecontrary, I hated her. She had played others false and treated
themjust as she had treated me.
"After madness there is always a reaction," I answered, recollecting howfondly I had once loved her, and how, since the day we parted, my life,even Bohemian as it must ever be in journalistic London, wasnevertheless loveless and misanthropic, the life of one whose hopes wereshattered and whose joy in living had been sapped. Shenley was but thetomb of those summer recollections. I never now visited the place.
"But all this is very foolish, Frank," she exclaimed with a calmphilosophical air and a smile probably meant to be coquettish. "Whyrecollect the past?"
"When one has loved as I once did, it is difficult to
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