rendered me."
"I find with satisfaction that although six years have gone by you havenot forgotten your promise made to me," she said, her large serious eyesfixed upon mine.
"I gave you that promise in exchange for my life," I remarked, as, ather suggestion, we turned and walked out of the station.
"And as acknowledgement of the service you rendered by preserving secretyour knowledge of the events of that terrible night I was enabled torender you a small service in return," she said. "Your sight wasrestored to you."
"For that, how can I sufficiently thank you?" I exclaimed. "I owe itall to you, and rest assured that, although we have not met until thisevening, I have never forgotten--nor shall I ever forget."
She smiled pleasantly, while I strolled slowly at her side across thestation-yard.
To me those moments were like a dream. Edna, the woman who had hithertobeen but a strange ghost of the past, was now actually beside me in theflesh.
"I have received other notes making appointments--the last, I think, acouple of years ago," I observed after a pause. "Did you not meet methen?"
She glanced at me with a puzzled expression. Of course she knew nothingof those lost years of my life.
"Meet you?" she repeated. "Certainly not."
"Who met me, then?"
"I really don't know," she answered. "This is the first time I haveapproached you, and I only come to you now in order to ask you to grantme a favour--a very great favour."
"A favour! What is it?"
"I cannot explain here, in the street," she said quickly. "If you willcome to my hotel I will place the facts before you."
"Where are you staying?"
"At the _Bath Hotel_, in Arlington Street."
I knew the place well. It stood at the corner of Arlington Street andPiccadilly, and was an eminently respectable, old-fashioned place,patronised by a high-class clientele.
"And you are alone?" I inquired, thinking it strange that she shouldthus ask me to her hotel.
"Of course. I have come to London expressly to see you," she responded."I went down to Budleigh-Salterton two days ago, but I ascertained atDenbury that you had left suddenly."
"Whom did you see there?" I inquired, much interested.
"Your butler. He told me some absurd story, how that you had becometemporarily irresponsible for your actions, and had disappeared, leavingno address."
"And you came to London?"
"Of course."
"And how did you find out where I was hidden, and my assumed name?"
She smiled mysteriously.
"It was easy enough, I assure you. A man of your influence in the City,and as well known as you are, has considerable difficulty in effectivelyconcealing his identity."
"But who told you where I was staying?" I demanded.
"Nobody. I discovered it for myself."
"And yet the police have been searching for me everywhere, and have notyet discovered me!" I remarked, surprised.
"The police have one method," she said. "I have an entirely differentone."
"Tell me one thing," I said, halting in our walk, for we were already atthe commencement of Victoria Street--that street down which I hadwandered blindly on that night long ago when I had lost myself--"tell mefor what reason those previous appointments were made with me atGrosvenor Gate, at King's Cross, at Eastbourne, and elsewhere?"
"You kept them," she replied. "You surely know."
"No, that's just it," I said. "Of course, I don't expect you to givecredence to what I say--it sounds too absurd--but I have absolutely noknowledge of keeping those appointments except the one at GrosvenorGate, and I am totally ignorant of having met anybody." She paused,looking me full in the face with those grey eyes so full of mystery.
"I begin to think that what the butler told me contains some truth," sheobserved bluntly.
"No," I protested. "My mind is in no way unhinged. I am fully aware ofall that transpired at The Boltons, of--"
"At The Boltons?" she interrupted, turning a trifle pale. "What do youmean?"
"Of the crime enacted at that house--in The Boltons." She held herbreath. Plainly she was not before aware that I had discovered the spotwhere the tragedy had taken place. My words had taken her by surprise,and it was evident that she was utterly confounded. My discovery I hadkept a profound secret unto myself, and now, for the first time, hadrevealed it.
Her face showed how utterly taken aback she was. "There is somemistake, I think," she said lamely, apparently for want of somethingother to say.
"Surely your memory carries you back to that midnight tragedy!" Iexclaimed rather hastily, for I saw she would even now mislead me, ifshe could. "I have discovered where it took place--I have sincere-entered that room?"
"You have!" she gasped in the low, hoarse voice of one fearful lest hersecret should be discovered. "You have actually re-discovered thehouse--even though you were stone blind?"
"Yes," I answered.
"How did you accomplish it?"
I shrugged my shoulders, answering: "There is an old saying--a very trueone--that `murder will out.'"
"But tell me more. Explain more fully," she urged in an earnest tone.
I hesitated. Next instant, however, I decided to keep my own counsel inthe matter. Her readiness to deny that the events occurred in thathouse had re-aroused within me a distinct suspicion.
"It is a long story, and cannot be told here," I answered evasively.
"Then come along to the hotel," she suggested. "I, too, have much tosay to you."
I do not know that I should have obeyed her were it not for the mysterywhich had hitherto, veiled her identity. She had saved my life, it istrue, and I supposed that I ought to consider her as a friend, yet inthose few minutes during which I had gazed upon her a curious dislike ofher had arisen within me. She was, I felt certain, not thestraightforward person I had once believed her to be.
Not that there was anything in her appearance against her. On thecontrary, she was a pleasant, smiling, rather pretty woman of perhapsthirty-five, who spoke with the air and manner of a lady, and whocarried herself well, with the grace of one in a higher social circle.
After a few moments' hesitation my curiosity got the better of mynatural caution, and I determined to hear what she had to say.Therefore we drove together to the _Bath Hotel_.
In her own private sitting-room, a cosy little apartment overlookingPiccadilly, opposite Dover Street, she removed her big black hat, drewoff her gloves, and having invited me to a chair, took one herself onthe opposite side of the fireplace. Her maid was there when we entered,but retired at word from her mistress.
"You, of course, regard it as very curious, Mr Heaton, that after thesesix years I should again seek you," she commenced, leaning her armlightly upon the little table, and gazing straight into my face withoutflinching. "It is true that once I was enabled to render you a service,and now in return I ask you also to render me one. Of course, it isuseless to deny that a secret exists between us--a secret which, ifrevealed, would be disastrous."
"To whom?"
"To certain persons whose names need not be mentioned."
"Why not?"
"Think," she said, very gravely. "Did you not promise that, in returnfor your life when you were blind and helpless, you would make no effortto learn the true facts? It seems that you have already learnt at leastone--the spot where the crime was committed."
"I consider it my duty to learn what I can of this affair," I answereddeterminedly.
She raised her eyebrows with an expression of surprise, for she saw thatI was in earnest.
"After your vow to me?" she asked. "Remember that, to acknowledge myindebtedness for that vow, I searched for the one specialist who couldrestore your sight. To my efforts, Mr Heaton, you are now inpossession of that sense that was lost to you."
"I acknowledge that freely," I answered. "Yet, even in that you havesought to deceive me."
"How?"
"And that is true. I was not the actual writer, even though I may havecaused them to be written."
"Having thus deceived me, how can you hope that I can be free with you?"
"I regret," she answered, "that slight deception has been necessary topreserve the secret?"
"The secret of the crime?"
She nodded.
"Well, and what do you wish to tell me this evening?" She was silentfor a moment, toying with her
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