notice how her face changed when I mentioned the horror?"
"Yes," I said.
"Her name's Blain, and I presume she's the daughter of Mrs. Blain who istenant of that house in Kensington?"
I nodded.
"An old flame of yours. I remember now that you once spoke of her."
"Quite true."
"Well, old fellow," he said, "it was quite apparent when I mentioned thetragedy that she feared the discovery had been made in Kensington.Depend upon it she can, if she likes, tell us a good deal."
"Yes," I answered thoughtfully, "I agree with you entirely, Dick. Ibelieve she can."
CHAPTER TEN.
ON THE SILENT HIGHWAY.
Whatever might have been Mary's object in thus renewing my acquaintanceat the very moment when I was about to seek her, one thing alone wasapparent--she feared the revelation of the tragic affair at Kensington.There are times when men and women, whatever mastery they may possessover their countenances, must involuntarily betray joy or fear in amanner unmistakable. Those sudden and entirely unintentional words ofDick's had, for the moment, frozen her heart. And yet it was incrediblethat she could have any connexion with this affair, so inexplicable thatSuperintendent Shaw, the chief of the Criminal Investigation Departmentat Scotland Yard, had himself visited the house, and, according to whatBoyd had told me, had expressed himself utterly bewildered.
Next day passed uneventfully, but on the following afternoon we tooktrain to Shepperton, where at the station we found Simpson, thechauffeur who had been at Shenley, awaiting us with a smart motor-car,in which we drove along the white winding road to Riverdene.
Dick's description of the place was certainly not in the leastexaggerated when he had said that it was one of the most charming oldplaces on the Thames. Approached from the highway by a long drivethrough a thick belt of elms and beeches, it stood, a long,old-fashioned house, covered with honeysuckle and roses, facing theriver, with a broad, well-kept lawn sloping down to the water's edge.The gardens on either side were filled with bright flowers, the highleafy trees overshadowed the house and kept it delightfully cool, andthe tent on the lawn and the several hammocks slung in the shadowtestified to the ease and repose of those who lived there. Manyriparian residences had I seen during my frequent picnics and Sundayexcursions up and down the various reaches, but for picturesqueness,perfect quiet and rural beauty, none could compare with this. I hadexpected to find a mere cottage, or at most a villa, the humble retreatof a half-ruined man; yet on the contrary it was a fine house, furnishedwith an elegance that was surprising, with men-servants and everyevidence of wealth. City men, I reflected, made money fast, and withoutdoubt old Henry Blain had regained long ago all that he had lost.
How beautiful, how tranquil was that spot, how sweet-smelling thatwealth of trailing roses which entirely hid one-half the house after thedust and stuffiness of Fleet Street, the incessant rattle of traffic,and the hoarse shouting of "the winners." Beyond the lawn, which we nowcrossed to greet our hostess and her daughter, the river ran cool anddeep, with its surface unruffled, so that the high poplars on theopposite bank were reflected into it with all their detail and colour asin a mirror. It was a warm afternoon, and during our drive the sun hadbeat down upon us mercilessly, but here in the shadow all wasdelightfully cool and refreshing. The porch of the house facing theriver was one mass of yellow roses, which spread their fragranceeverywhere.
Mrs. Blain was seated in a wicker chair with some needlework, while Marywas lying in a _chaise-longue_ reading the latest novel from Mudie's,and our footsteps falling noiselessly upon the turf, neither noticed ourapproach until we stood before them.
"I'm so very pleased you've come, Frank," exclaimed the elder lady,starting forward enthusiastically as she put down her work, "and I'mdelighted to meet your friend. I have heard of you both several timesthrough your father. I wonder he doesn't exchange his living with someone. He seems so very unwell of late. I've always thought that Harwelldoesn't suit him."
"He has tried on several occasions, but the offers he has had are intowns in the North of England, so he prefers Berkshire," I answered.
"Well," she said, inviting us both to be seated in comfortable wickerchairs standing near, "it is really very pleasant to see you again.Mary has spoken of you, and wondered how you were so many, many times."
"I'm sure," I said, "the pleasure is mutual."
Dick, after I had introduced him to Mrs. Blain, had seated himself atMary's side and was chatting to her, while I, leaning back in my chair,looked at this woman before me and remembered the object of my visit.There was certainly nothing in her face to arouse suspicion. She wasperhaps fifty, with just a sign of grey hairs, dark-eyed, with a nose ofthat type one associates with employers of labour. A trifle inclined to_embonpoint_, she was a typical, well-preserved Englishwoman of motherlydisposition, even though by birth she was of one of the first Shropshirefamilies, and in the days of Shenley she had been quite a prominentfigure in the May flutter of London. I had liked her exceedingly, forshe had shown me many kindnesses. Indeed, she had distinctly favouredthe match between Mary and myself, although her husband, a bustling,busy man, had scouted the idea. This Mary herself had told me long agoin those dreamy days of sweet confidences. The thought that she was inany way implicated in the mysterious affair under investigation seemedabsolutely absurd, and I laughed within myself.
She was dressed, as she always had dressed after luncheon, in blacksatin duchesse, a quiet elegance which I think rather created anillusion that she was stout, and as she arranged her needlework aside inorder to chat to me, she sighed as matronly ladies are wont to sighduring the drowsy after-luncheon hours.
From time to time I turned and laughed with Mary as she gaily sought myopinion on this and on that. She was dressed in dark blue serge trimmedwith narrow white braid, her sailor hat cast aside lying on the grass, asmart river costume of a _chic_ familiar to me in the fashion-plates ofthe ladies' papers. As she lay back, her head pillowed on the cushion,there was in her eyes that coquettish smile, and she laughed thatringing musical laugh as of old.
A boatful of merrymakers went by, looking across, and no doubt envyingus our ease, for sculling out there in the blazing sun could scarcely bea pleasure. Judging from their appearance they were shop-assistantsmaking the best of the Thursday early-closing movement--a movement whichhappily gives the slaves of suburban counters opportunity for healthfulrecreation. The boat was laden to overflowing, and prominent in thebows was the inevitable basket of provisions and the tin kettle formaking tea.
"It's too hot, as yet, to go out," Mary said, watching them. "We'll golater."
"Very well," Dick answered. "I shall be delighted. I love the river,but since my Cambridge days I've unfortunately had but littleopportunity for sculling."
"You newspaper men," observed Mrs. Blain, addressing me, "must have verylittle leisure, I think. The newspapers are always full. Isn't it verydifficult to fill the pages?"
"No," I answered. "That's a common error. To every newspaper in thekingdom there comes daily sufficient news of one sort or another to fillthree sheets the same size. The duty of the journalist, if, of course,he is not a reporter or leader-writer, is to make a judicious selectionas to what he shall publish and what he shall omit. It is this thatwears out one's brains."
"But the reporters," she continued--"I mean those men who go and hunt updetails of horrors, crimes and such things--are they well paid?"
That struck me as a strange question, and I think I must have glanced ather rather inquiringly.
"They are paid as well as most professions are paid nowadays," Ianswered. "Better, perhaps, than some."
"And their duty is to make inquiries and scrape up all kinds of details,just like detectives, I've heard it said. Is that so?"
"Exactly," I replied. "One of the cleverest men in that branch ofjournalism is our friend here, Mr. Cleugh."
She looked at the man I indicated, and I thought her face went slig
htlypaler. It may, however, only have been in my imagination.
"Is he really one of those?" she inquired in a low undertone.
"Yes," I responded. "In all Fleet Street, he's the shrewdest man inhunting out the truth. He is the _Comet_ man, and may claim to haveoriginated the reporter-investigation branch of journalism."
She was silent for a few moments. Lines appeared between her eyes.Then she took up her needlework, as if to divert her thoughts.
"And Mr. Blain?" I asked at last, in want of some better topic. "Howis he?"
"Oh, busy as usual. He's in Paris. He went a fortnight ago uponbusiness connected with some company
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