The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

for good or for evil?

  Naturally, I had always been fond of adventure, for I came of a familyof sailors. But the gruesome incidents of that single night when I hadwandered alone in London had utterly unnerved me. I had become sosurrounded by mystery that each effort of mine to elucidate it caused meto sink deeper and deeper into the complex quagmire of uncertainty.

  Perhaps Edna herself desired to speak with me, now that I could see.This suggestion took possession of me, and next morning I was anxiousand interested in the appointment. Soon after three I took an omnibusfrom the Strand to the corner of Park Lane, and on the stroke of fourentered the Park at Grosvenor Gate and glanced eagerly around. No onewas in the vicinity save one or two loungers of the "unemployed" typeand two or three nursemaids with children. Without difficulty I soonfound the seat indicated, and sat down to wait. It was a pleasant spotbeneath a large chestnut tree, quiet and more secluded than any of theothers. Evidently my correspondent knew the Park well.

  I lit a cigarette and possessed myself in patience. After some fiveminutes or so a female figure entered the gate and approached in mydirection. It was that of an elderly woman of rather common type, andas she came straight towards me I waited her with some curiosity, butshe passed me by without a look, and continued on her way. Then I knewthat she was not the person who intended to meet me, and laughed withinmyself.

  My position was one of curiosity, sitting there prepared to meet someperson unknown. We have all of us, at one time or another, sat awaitingpersons we have never before seen, and we have invariably found mentalpictures of their appearance utterly different from their real aspect.It was so with me at that moment. I sat waiting and wondering for halfan hour or so, watching narrowly all who chanced to approach, until Ibegan to suspect that for some reason or other the appointment would notbe kept.

  A glance at my watch showed it to be already twenty minutes to five. Mypatience was exhausted, and I felt annoyed that I should be thus broughthere on a purposeless errand. Of one man who had passed, a dark-faced,ill-dressed lounger, I had had my suspicions. He had idled past,feigning to take no notice of my presence, yet I saw that he wascovertly watching me. Perhaps he had been sent to see whether I hadcome there alone. I waited and waited, but in vain.

  The shadows had lengthened, the sun was sinking behind the trees inKensington Gardens, and at length I cast away the end of my lastremaining cigarette and rose to depart. Perhaps some untoward incidenthad occurred, and I should receive a further communication from myunknown correspondent. I had, at least, carried out my part of thecompact, and was therefore free. So I took my stick and set forthtowards Grosvenor Gate at a brisk pace, for I was tired of waiting, andmy limbs were cramped by my long and fruitless vigil.

  I had almost reached the gate leading out to Park Lane when of a sudden,at a sharp bend of the path, a dark figure loomed up before me.

  In an instant I drew up speechless, aghast, amazed. The mystery wasabsolutely dumbfounding.

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  "IT IS HIS!"

  The figure before me was that of a woman, calm, sweet-faced, hercountenance rendered piquant by its expression of surprise.

  It was none other than Mabel Anson.

  Dressed in a tight-fitting tailor-made gown of some dark cloth, and aneat toque, she looked dignified and altogether charming. The slightseverity of attire became her well, for it showed her marvellous figureto perfection, while the dash of red in her hat gave the necessary touchof colour to complete a tasteful effect. Her countenance was concealedby the thinnest of gauze veils, and as she held forth her well-glovedhand with an expression of pleasure at the unexpected meeting, herbangles jingled musically.

  "This is indeed a most pleasant surprise, Miss Anson," I said, when Irecovered speech, for so sudden had been our encounter that in themoment of my astonishment my tongue refused to utter a sound.

  "And to me also," she laughed.

  "I've been wondering and wondering when we should meet again," I blurtedforth. "I'm so very glad to see you."

  For the first few moments after she had allowed her tiny hand to restfor an instant in mine we exchanged conventionalities, and thensuddenly, noting a roll of music in her hand, I asked--

  "Are you going home?"

  "Yes, across the Park," she laughed. "Mother forbids it, but I muchprefer the Park to those stuffy omnibuses."

  "And you've been to your music, I suppose?" I inquired.

  "Yes. I've not been well for the past few days, and have missed severallessons. Now, like a good pupil, I'm endeavouring to make them up, youknow." And she laughed merrily.

  "How many times a week do you go to the Academy?" I asked, surprisedthat she should have gone there that day, after what the hall-porter hadtold me.

  "Twice, as a general rule," she remarked; "but just now I'm ratherirregular."

  "And so you prefer to cross the Park rather than ride by omnibus?"

  "Certainly. Mother doesn't approve of girls riding on the tops of'buses, and says it's fast. Therefore I'd much rather walk, for at thishour half London seems to be going from Piccadilly Circus toHammersmith. I go right across, past the Serpentine, through KensingtonGardens to the Broad Walk, and out by the small gate next the _PalaceHotel_," she added, with a sweep of her gloved hand.

  Her eyes were lovely. As she stood there in the fading sunlight sheseemed the fairest vision I had ever seen. I stood spell-bound by hermarvellous beauty.

  "And may I not act as your escort on your walk to-day?" I asked.

  "Certainly. I have no objection," she answered with graceful dignity,therefore I turned and walked beside her, carrying her music.

  We took the road, which leads straight away to the Magazine, and crossesthe Serpentine beyond. There in the yellow glow of the October sunset Ilounged at her side and drank my fill of her loveliness. Surely, Ithought, there could be no more beautiful woman in all the world. TheColonel's strange warning recurred to me, but I laughed it to scorn.

  As we passed beneath the rustling trees the sun's last rays lit up herbeautiful face with a light that seemed ethereal and tipped her hairuntil there seemed a golden halo about her. I was no lovesick youth, beit remembered, but a man who had had a bitter experience of the worldand its suffering. Yet at that hour I was fascinated by the grace ofher superb carriage, the suppleness of her figure, the charm of hersweet smile, and the soft music of her voice as she chatted to me.

  She told me of her love for music; and from the character of the pieceswhich formed her studies I knew that she must be a musician of a no meanorder. The operatic melody which she had sung at the Colonel's was, shedeclared, a mere trifle. We discussed the works of Rossini and Massent,of Wagner and Mendelssohn, and of Verdi, Puccini, Mascagni, Perosi, andsuch latter-day composers. I had always prided myself that I knewsomething of music, but her knowledge was far deeper than mine.

  And so we gossiped on, crossing the Park and entering KensingtonGardens--those beautiful pleasure grounds that always seem so neglectedby the majority of Londoners--while the sun sank and disappeared in itsblood-red afterglow. She spoke of her life abroad, declaring that sheloved London and was always pleased to return to its wild, turbulentlife. She had spent some time in Paris, in Vienna, in Berlin, but noone was half as interesting, she declared, as London.

  "But you are not a Londoner, are you?" I asked.

  "No, not exactly," she responded, "although I've lived here such a longtime that I've become almost a Cockney. Are you a Londoner?"

  "No," I answered; "I'm a countryman, born and bred."

  "I heard the Colonel remark that other night that you had been afflictedby blindness for some time. Is that so?"

  I responded in the affirmative.

  "Terrible!" she ejaculated, glancing at me with those wonderful darkeyes of hers that seemed to hold me in fascination and look me throughand through. "We who possess our eyesight cannot imagine the greatdisadvantages under which the blind are placed. How fortunate that yo
uare cured!"

  "Yes," I explained. "The cure is little short of a miracle. The threegreatest oculists in London all agreed that I was incurable, yet thereone day came to me a man who said he could give me back my sight. Iallowed him to experiment, and he was successful. From the day that Icould see plainly he, curiously enough, disappeared."

  "How strange! Did he never come and see you afterwards?"

  "No. He took no reward, but simply discontinued his visits. I do noteven know his real name."

  "How extraordinary!" she observed, greatly interested. "I reallybelieve that there is often more romance and mystery in real life thanin books. Such a circumstance appears absolutely bewildering."

  "If to you, Miss Anson, then how much more to me! I, who