The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

kind to have bornewith me like this," she added, her manner quickly changing; "and if wedo meet, I'll try not to have another fit of melancholy."

  "Yes, Miss Anson," I said, halting in the path, "let us meet again.Remember that we have to-day commenced a friendship--a friendship whichI trust will last always."

  But she slowly shook her head, as though the heavy sadness of her heartstill possessed her.

  "Friendship may exist between us, but frequent meetings are, I fear,impossible."

  "Why? You told me only a moment ago that you were your own mistress," Iobserved.

  "And so I am in most things," she answered. "But as far as meeting you,we can only leave that to chance."

  "Why?"

  "Please do not endeavour to force me to explanations," she answered withfirmness. "I merely tell you that frequent meetings with you areunlikely--that is all."

  We had walked on, and were nearing the gate leading out into the HighStreet, Kensington.

  "In other words, then, you are not altogether pleased with mycompanionship?"

  "No, really," she laughed sweetly. "I didn't say that. You have noreason to jump at such a conclusion. I thank you very much indeed foryour words of sympathy."

  "And you have no desire to see me again?" I interrupted, in a tone ofbitter disappointment.

  "If such were the case, ours would be a very extraordinary friendship,wouldn't it?" and she lifted her eyes to mine with a kindly look.

  "Then I am to take it that my companionship on this walk has not beendistasteful to you?" I asked anxiously.

  She inclined her head with dignified air, saying. "Certainly. I feelthat this evening I have at least found a friend--a pleasant thoughtwhen one is comparatively friendless."

  "And as your friend--your devoted friend--I ask to be permitted to seeyou sometimes," I said earnestly, for, lingering at her side, I was veryloth to part from her. "If I can ever be of any assistance, commandme."

  "You are very kind," she answered, with a slight tremor in her voice."I shall remember your words always." Then, putting forth herwell-gloved hand, as we stood upon the kerb of the High Street, sheadded, "It is getting late. We've taken such a long time across thePark that I must drive home;" and she made a gesture to a passinghansom.

  "Before we part," I said, "I will give you a card, so that should yourequire any service of me you will know where to write;" and, as westood beneath the street lamp, I drew out a card and, with a pencil Itook from my vest-pocket, scribbled my address.

  In silence she watched, but just as I had finished she suddenly grippedmy hand, uttering a loud cry of amazement.

  "What's that you have there?" she demanded. "Let me see it!"

  Next instant--before, indeed, I could be aware of her intention--she hadsnatched the pencil from my grasp, and was examining it closely beneaththe gaslight.

  "Ah!" she gasped, glaring at me in alarm. "It is--yes, it is his!"

  The small gold pencil which I had inadvertently used was the one I hadtaken from the pocket of the dead unknown on that fateful August night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  THE ENCHANTMENT OF A FACE.

  The face of Mabel Anson, my new-found friend and idyll, had in thatinstant changed. Her countenance was pale as death, while the handholding the small pencil trembled.

  "Whence did you obtain this?" she demanded in an awe-stricken tone,which showed plainly that she recognised it. She held her breath inexpectancy.

  What could I reply? To explain the truth was impossible, for I hadpledged my honour to Edna to preserve the secret. Besides, I had nowish to horrify her by the strange story of my midnight adventure.Hence a lie arose involuntarily to my lips.

  "I found it," I stammered.

  "Found it? Where?"

  "I found it when groping about during the time I was blind, and I'vecarried it ever since, wondering whether one day I should discover itsowner."

  "It is extraordinary?" she gasped--"most extraordinary."

  "You appear to recognise it," I observed, much puzzled at her attitude."If you can tell me to whom it belongs I will return it."

  She hesitated, and with a quick effort regained her self-control.

  "I mean it possesses an extraordinary resemblance to one I have seenmany times before--but I suppose there are lots of pencil-cases of thesame shape," she added with affected carelessness.

  "But there is a curious, unintelligible cypher engraved upon it," Isaid. "Did you notice it?"

  "Yes. It is the engraving which makes me doubt that I know its owner.His initials were not those."

  "You speak in the past tense," I observed. "Why!"

  "Because--well, because we are no longer friends--if you desire to knowthe truth;" and she handed me back the object, which, with thedress-stud, formed the only clue I had to the identity of theunfortunate victim of the assassin.

  There was something in her manner which was to me the reverse ofconvincing. I felt absolutely certain that this unimportant object had,in reality, been identified by her, and that with some hidden motive shewas now intentionally misleading me.

  "Then you do not believe that this really belonged to your friend?" Iasked, holding it up to her gaze.

  "No," she answered quickly, averting her face as though the sight of itwere obnoxious. "I feel certain that it did not. Its resemblance isstriking--that's all."

  "It would have been a remarkable coincidence if it really were theproperty of your friend," I said.

  "Very remarkable," she admitted, still regarding me strangely. "Yet thetrite saying that `The world is small' is nevertheless very true. WhenI first saw it I felt certain it belonged to a gentleman I knew, but oncloser examination I find it is older, more battered, and bears initialswhich have evidently been engraved several years."

  "Where did your friend lose his?" I inquired, reflecting upon thelameness of her story. The mere recognition of a lost pencil-case wouldnever have affected her in the manner that sight of this one had ifthere were not some deeper meaning attached to it.

  "I have no idea. Indeed, I am not at all sure that it is not still inhis possession."

  "And how came you to be so well acquainted with its aspect?" I asked,in eagerness to ascertain the truth.

  She hesitated for a few moments. "Because," she faltered--"because itwas a present from me."

  "To an admirer?"

  She did not answer, but even in that dim lamplight I detected thetell-tale flush mounting to her cheeks.

  Then, in order, apparently, to cover her confusion, she added--

  "I must really go. I shall be late for dinner, and my mother hates towait for me. Good-bye."

  Our hands clasped, our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of deepmystery, as though she held me in suspicion. Her manner and heridentification of that object extracted from the pocket of the dead manwere very puzzling.

  "Good-bye," I said. "I hope soon to have the pleasure of meeting youagain. I have enjoyed this walk of ours immensely."

  "When we meet--if ever we do," she answered with a mischievous smile,"remember that I have promised to wear the mask. Good-bye." And shetwisted her skirts gracefully, entered the cab, and a moment later wasdriven off, leaving me alone on the kerb.

  I hesitated whether to return home by 'bus or Underground Railway, but,deciding on the latter, continued along the High Street to the station,and journeyed to the Temple by that sulphurous region of dirt anddarkness known as the "Inner Circle."

  The reader may readily imagine how filled with conflicting thoughts wasmy mind on that homeward journey. Although I adored Mabel Anson with alove beyond all bounds, and would on that evening have declared mypassion for her had I dared, yet I could not disguise from myself thatsight of the pencil-case I had taken from the dead unknown had wroughtan instant and extraordinary change in her.

  She had identified it. Of that fact there was no doubt. Her lameexplanation that it bore a resemblance to the one she had given to herfriend was too palpably an
afterthought. I was vexed that she shouldhave thus attempted a deception. It was certainly true that one goldpencil-case is very like another, and that a Birmingham maker may turnout a thousand of similar pattern, yet the intricate cypher engraved onthe one in question was sufficient by which to identify it. It wasthese very initials which had caused her to deny that it was really theone she had purchased and presented; yet I felt convinced that what shehad told me was untrue, and that those very initials had been placedupon it by her order.

  Again, had she not spoken of its owner in the past tense? This, initself, was a very suspicious circumstance, and