The Wiles of the Wicked

by William Le Queux

to entertainan instinctive dislike to one's companion, and it was so in my case. Ifound myself regretting that I had not entered a smoking-carriage. ButI soon became absorbed in my papers, and forgot her presence.

  It was only her voice, a curiously high-pitched one, that made me start.

  She inquired if I minded her closing the window because of the draught,and I at once closed it, responding rather frigidly, I believe.

  But she was in no humour to allow the conversation to drop and commencedto chat with a familiarity that surprised me.

  She noticed how puzzled I became, and at length remarked with a laugh--

  "You apparently don't recognise me, Mr Heaton."

  "No, madam," I answered, taken aback. "You have certainly the advantageof me."

  This recognition was startling, for was I not flying to London to escapemy friends? This woman, whoever she was, would without doubt recounther meeting with me.

  "It is really very droll," she laughed. "I felt sure from the first,when you entered the compartment, that you didn't know me."

  "I certainly don't know you," I responded coldly--

  She smiled. "Ah! I expect it's my veil," she said.

  "But it's really remarkable that you should not recognise Joliot, yourwife's maid."

  "You! My wife's maid!" I gasped, recognising in an instant howcleverly I had been run to earth.

  "Yes," she replied. "Surely you recognise me?" and she raised her veil,displaying a rather unprepossessing face, dark and tragic, as thoughfull of some hidden, sorrow.

  I had never seen the woman before in my life, but instantly I resolvedto display no surprise and act with caution.

  "Ah, of course!" I said lamely. "The light here is so bad, you know,that I didn't recognise you. And where are you going?"

  "To London--to the dressmaker's."

  "Mrs Heaton has sent you on some commission, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You joined this train at Exeter, then?"

  "I came from Exmouth to Exeter, and changed," she explained. "I saw youget in at Lympston." My heart sank within me. It was evident that thiswoman had been sent by my self-styled wife to keep watch upon mymovements. If I intended to escape I should be compelled to make termswith her.

  Those sharp dark eyes, with a curious light in them--eyes that seemedstrangely staring and vacant at times--were fixed upon me, while thesmile about her thin lips was clearly one of triumph, as though she hadcaught me in the act of flying from my home.

  I reflected, but next moment resolved to take her into my confidence. Idisliked her, for her manner was somewhat eccentric, and, furthermore, Ihad only her own word that she was really maid to that angular woman whocalled herself my wife. Nevertheless, I could do naught else than makea bargain with her.

  "Now," I said at last, after some desultory conversation, "I want tomake a suggestion to you. Do you think that if I gave you a ten-poundnote you could forget having met me to-night? Do you think that youcould forget having seen me at all?"

  "Forget? I don't understand."

  "Well, to put it plainly, I'm going to London, and I have no desire thatanybody should know that I'm there," I explained. "When I am found tobe missing from Denbury, Mrs Heaton will do all in her power todiscover me. You are the only person who knows that I've gone toLondon, and I want you to hold your tongue."

  She smiled again, showing an even row of white teeth.

  "I was sent by my mistress to travel by this train and to see where youwent," she said bluntly.

  "Exactly as I thought," I answered. "Now, you will accept this as alittle present, and return to Denbury to-morrow after a fruitlesserrand--utterly fruitless, you understand?"

  She took the ten sovereigns I handed her, and transferred them to herpurse, promising to say nothing of having met me.

  I gathered from her subsequent conversation that she had been maid toMrs Heaton ever since her marriage, and that she had acted asconfidential servant. Many things she mentioned incidentally were ofthe greatest interest to me, yet they only served to show how utterlyignorant I was of all the past.

  "But why did you disclose your identity?" I inquired, when the lightsshowed that we were entering the London suburbs.

  "Because I felt certain that you didn't recognise me," she laughed; "andI had no wish to spy upon you, knowing as I do that your life is thereverse of happy."

  "Then you pity me, eh?"

  "I scarcely think that is the word that one of my position ought touse," she answered, with some hesitation. "Your life has, since yourmarriage, not been of the happiest, that's certain."

  "And so you have no intention of telling any one where I've gone?" Iasked eagerly.

  "None in the least, sir. Rest assured that I shall say nothing--not asingle word."

  "I thank you," I said, and sat back pondering in silence until the trainran into Waterloo, where we parted, she again reassuring me of herintention to keep my secret.

  I congratulated myself upon a very narrow escape, and, taking a cab,drove straight to Trafalgar Square. As I crossed Waterloo Bridge thelong line of lights on the Embankment presented the same picture as theyhad ever done. Though six years had passed since I had last hadknowledge of London, nothing had apparently changed. The rednight-glare in the leaden sky was still the same; the same unceasingtraffic; the same flashing of bright dresses and glittering jewels ashansoms passed and repassed in the Strand--just as I had known London bynight during all my life.

  The gold-braided porter at the _Grand_ handed me out of the cab, and Iascended by the lift to the room allotted to me like a man in a dream.It hardly seemed possible that I could have been absent in mind fromthat whirling, fevered world of London for six whole years. I had givena false name in the reception bureau, fearing that those people whocalled themselves my friends--Heaven save the mark!--might makeinquiries and cause my arrest as a wandering lunatic. I had no baggage,and I saw that the hotel-clerk looked upon me with some suspicion.Indeed, I threw down a couple of sovereigns, well knowing the rules thatno person without luggage was taken unless he paid a deposit beforehand.

  I laughed bitterly within myself. How strange it was!

  Next morning I went forth and wandered down the Strand--the dear oldStrand that I had once loved so well. No; it had in no wise changed,except, perhaps, that two or three monster buildings had sprung up, andthat the theatres announced pieces quite unknown to me. A sudden desireseized me to see what kind of place was my own office. If, however, Iwent near there, I might, I reflected, be recognised by some one whoknew me. Therefore I turned into a barber's and had my beard cut off,then, further on, bought a new dust coat and another hat. In thatdisguise I took a hansom to Old Broad Street.

  I was not long in finding the business headquarters of my own self. Howcurious it all was! My name was marked upon a huge brass plate in theentrance-hall of that colossal block of offices, and I ascended to thefirst floor to find my name inscribed upon the door of one of thelargest of the suites. I stood in the corridor carelessly reading apaper, and while doing so witnessed many persons, several of themsmart-looking City men, leave, as though much business was beingconducted within.

  Fortunately, no one recognised me, and descending, I regained thestreet.

  When outside I glanced up, and there saw my name, in big gilt letters,upon the wire blinds of six big windows.

  If I were actually as well known in the City as Gedge had alleged, thenit was dangerous for me to remain in that vicinity. Therefore I enteredanother cab and drove to my old chambers in Essex Street.

  Up the thin-worn creaking stairs of the dismal, smoke-begrimed old placeI climbed, but on arrival at my door a plate confronting me showed thatPercival and Smale, solicitors, were now the occupants. From inquiriesI made of Mr Smale, it appeared that they had occupied the floor asoffices for the past three years, and that the tenants previous to themhad been a firm of accountants. He knew nothing of my tenancy, andcould tell me no word of eithe
r old Mrs Parker or of Dick Doyle, whohad, it appeared, also vacated his quarters long ago. That afternoon Iwandered in the Park, over that same road where I had lingered withMabel in those cherished days bygone. Every tree and every objectbrought back to me sweet memories of her. But I remembered her lettersreposing in my pocket, and bit my lip. Truly, in the unconscious lifewhen I had been my other self, my real tastes had been inverted. Mylove for her had cooled. I had actually, when engaged to her, cast heraside.

  It was incredible. Surely my experience was unique in all the world.

  Unable to decide how to act in those puzzling circumstances, I spentfully a couple of hours in the Park. The Row was hot, dusty, and almostdeserted, but at last I turned into the shady walks in