We darted out through the china, furniture and ironmongery departments, across the whole width of the building and out of the Agar Street entrance, where we immediately crossed into King William Street, turned down Adelaide Street, shot through the alley by St. Martin’s Church, and came out opposite the National Portrait Gallery just as a yellow omnibus was about to start. We sprang into the moving vehicle, and, as it rumbled away into the Charing Cross Road, we kept a sharp watch on the end of King William Street. But there was no sign of our pursuer. We had got rid of him for the present, at any rate. “Don’t you think,” said Sylvia, “that he will suspect that we went into the Stores?”
“I have no doubt he will, and that is where we have him. He can’t come away and leave the building unsearched. Most probably he is, at this very moment, racing madly up and down the stairs and trying to watch the three entrances at the same time.”
Sylvia chuckled gleefully. “It has been quite good fun,” she said, “but I am glad we have shaken him off. I think I shall stay indoors for a day or two and paint, and I hope you’ll stay indoors, too. And that reminds me that I am out of Heyl’s white. I must call in at Robinson’s and get a pound tube. Do you mind? It won’t delay us more than a few minutes.”
Now I would much rather have gone straight on to Hampstead, for our unknown attendant certainly knew the whereabouts of my lodgings and might follow us when he failed to find us in the stores. Moreover, I had, of late, given the neighbourhood of the artist’s-colourman’s shop a rather wide berth, having seen Mrs. Samway from afar once or twice, thereabouts, and having surmised that she tended to haunt, that particular part of the Hampstead Road. But the fresh supply of flake white seemed to be a necessity, so I made no objection, and we accordingly alighted opposite the shop and entered. Nevertheless, while Sylvia was making her purchase, I stood near the glass door and kept a watchful eye on the street. When a tram stopped a short distance away, I glanced quickly over its passengers, as well as I could, though without observing anyone who might have been our absent friend. But just as it was about to move on, I saw a woman run out from the pavement and enter; and though I got but an indifferent view of her, I felt an uncomfortable suspicion that the woman was Mrs. Samway.
Looking back, I do not quite understand why I had avoided this woman or why I now looked with distaste on the fact that she was travelling in our direction. She was a pleasant-spoken, intelligent person, and I had no dislike of her, nor any cause for dislike. Perhaps it was the recollection of the offence that she had given Sylvia in this very shop, but a short time since, that made me unwilling to encounter her now in Sylvia’s company. At any rate, whatever the cause may have been, throughout the otherwise, pleasant journey, and in spite of an animated and interesting conversation, the thought of Mrs. Samway continually recurred, and this notwithstanding that I kept a constant, unobtrusive look-out for the mysterious spy who might, even now, be hovering in our rear.
We alighted from the tram at the “Duke of St. Alban’s” and made our way to North End by way of the Highgate Ponds. As we crossed the open fields and the Heath, I turned at intervals to see if there was any sign of our being followed; but no suspicious-looking person appeared in sight, though on two separate occasions, I noticed a woman ahead of us, and walking in much the same direction, turn round and look our way. There was no reason, however, to suppose that she was looking at us, and, in any case, she was too far ahead to be recognizable. At last, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Spaniard’s Road, she finally disappeared, possibly into the hollow beyond, and I saw no more of her.
At the gate of “The Hawthorns” I delivered up the heavy tube of paint, and thus, as it were, formally brought our little outing to an end; and as we shook hands Sylvia treated me to a parting exhortation. “Now do take care of yourself and keep out of harm’s way,” she urged. “You are so large, you see,” she added with a smile, “and such a very conspicuous object that you ought to take special precautions. And you must come and see us again quite soon. I assure you my aunt is positively pining for another conversation with you. Why shouldn’t you drop in to-morrow and have tea with us?”
Now this very idea had already occurred to me, so I hastened to close with the invitation; and then, as she retired up the path with another “good-bye” and a wave of the hand, I turned away and walked back towards the Heath.
For some minutes I strode on, across furzy hollows or over little hills, traversed by sunken, sandy paths, occupying myself with thoughts of the pleasant, friendly girl whom I had just left and reflections on the strange events of the morning. Presently I mounted a larger hill, on which was perched a little, old-fashioned house. Skirting the wooden fence that enclosed it, I turned the corner and saw before me, at a distance of some forty yards, a rough, rustic seat. On that seat a woman was sitting; and somehow, when I looked at her and noted the graceful droop of the figure, it was without any feeling of surprise—almost that of realized expectation—that I recognized Mrs. Samway.
* * *
XIV — A LONELY WOMAN
IF I had had any intention of avoiding Mrs. Samway, that intention must inevitably have been frustrated, for her recognition was as instantaneous as my own. Almost as I turned the corner, she looked up and saw me; and a few moments later, she rose and advanced in my direction, so that, to an onlooker it would have appeared as if we had met by appointment. There was obviously nothing for it but to look as pleased as I could manage at such short notice; which I did, shaking her hand with hypocritical warmth. “And I suppose. Dr. Jardine,” said she, “you are thinking what a very odd coincidence it is that we should happen to meet here?”
“Oh, I don’t know that it is so very odd. I live about here and I understood you to say that you often come up to the Heath. At any rate, our last meeting was a good deal more odd.”
“Yes, indeed. But the truth is that this is not a coincidence at all. I may as well confess that I came here deliberately with the intention of waylaying you.”
This very frank statement took me aback considerably; so much so that I could think of no appropriate remark beyond mumbling something to the effect that “it was very flattering of her.”
“I have been trying,” she continued, “to get a few words with you for some time past; but, although I have lurked in your line of march in the most shameless manner, I have always managed to miss you. I thought, from what you told me, that you passed Robinson’s shop on your way to the hospital.”
“So I do,” I replied mendaciously; for I could hardly tell her that I had lately taken to shooting up bystreets with the express purpose of avoiding that particular stretch of pavement.
“It’s rather curious that I never happened to meet you there. However, I didn’t, so, to-day, I determined to take the bull by the horns and catch you here.”
This last statement, like the former ones, gave me abundant matter for reflection. How the deuce had she managed to “catch me here?” I supposed that she had seen Sylvia and me in the Hampstead Road and had guessed that we were coming on to this neighbourhood. That was a case of feminine intuition; which, like the bone-setter’s skill, is a wonderful thing—when it comes off (and when it doesn’t one isn’t expected to notice the fact). Then she had gone on ahead—still guessing at our final destination—and kept us in sight while keeping out of view herself. It was not so very easy to understand and not at all comfortable to think of, for there was a disagreeable suggestion that she had somehow ascertained Sylvia’s place of abode beforehand. And yet—well, the whole affair was rather mysterious. “You don’t ask why it was that I wanted to waylay you,” she said, at length, as I made no comment on her last statement.
“There is an old saying,” I replied, “that one shouldn’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.”
“That is very diplomatic,” she retorted with a laugh. “But I daresay your knowledge of women makes the question unnecessary.”
“My knowledge of women,” said I, “might be put into a nutshell
and still leave plenty of room for the nut and a good, fat maggot besides.”
“Then I must beware of you. The man who professes to know nothing of women is the most deep and dangerous class of person. But there is one item of knowledge that you seem to have acquired. You seem to know that women like to have pretty things said to them.”
“If you call that knowledge,” said I, “you must apply the same name to the mere blind impulse that leads a spider to spin a nice, symmetrical web.”
She laughed softly and looked up at me with an expression of amused reflection. “I am thinking,” she said, “what a very fine symmetrical web you would spin if you were a spider.”
“Possibly,” I replied. “But it looks as if the role of bluebottle were the one that is being marked out for me.”
“Oh! Not a bluebottle. Dr. Jardine. It doesn’t suit you at all. If you must make a comparison, why not say a Goliath beetle, and have something really dignified—and not so very inappropriate.”
“Well, then, a Goliath beetle, if you prefer it; not that he would look very dignified, kicking his heels in the elegant web of the superlatively elegant feminine spider.”
“Oh, but that isn’t pretty of you at all, Dr. Jardine. In fact it is quite horrid; and unfair, too; because you are trying to get the information without asking a direct question.”
“What question am I supposed to ask?”
“You needn’t ask any. I will take pity on your masculine pride and tell you why I have been lying in wait for you, although I daresay you have guessed. The truth is, I am simply devoured by curiosity.”
“Concerning what?”
“Now, how can you ask? Just think! One day I meet you in the Hampstead Road, going about your ordinary business, apparently a fixture, at least for months. A few days later, a hundred miles from London, I feel myself suddenly seized from behind; I turn round and there are you with tragedy and adventure written large all over you.”
“I thought the tragedy was rather on your side; and so did the ancient mariner with the black bottle and the tea cup. But—”
“I don’t wish to discuss the views of that well-meaning old brute. I want an explanation. I want to know how you came to be in Folkestone and in that extraordinary condition. I am sure something strange must have happened to you.”
“Why? Haven’t I as much right to be in Folkestone as you have?”
“That is mere evasion. When I see a man who is usually rather carefully and very neatly dressed, walking in the streets of a seaport town without hat or a stick and with a collar that looks as if it had been used to clean out a saucepan, and great stains on his clothes, I am justified in inferring that something unusual has happened to him.”
“I didn’t think you had noticed my neglige get-up.”
“At the time I did not. I was very upset and agitated, I had just had a lot of worry and was compelled to cross to France at a moment’s notice; and then there was that horrible horse, and the sudden way that you seized me and then got knocked down; and the—”
“The ancient mariner.”
“Yes, the ancient mariner; and the knowledge that I was behaving like an idiot and couldn’t help it—though you were so nice and kind to me. So you see, I was hardly conscious of what was happening at the time. But afterwards, when I had recovered my wits a little, I recalled the astonishing figure that you made, and I have been wondering ever since what had happened to you. I assure you. Dr. Jardine, you looked as if you might have swum to Folkestone.”
“Did I, by Jove!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Well, appearances weren’t so very deceptive. The fact is that I had swum part of the way.”
She looked at me incredulously. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that you are now looking on a modern and strictly up-to-date edition of Sinbad the Sailor.”
“That isn’t very explanatory. But I suppose it isn’t meant to be. It is just a preliminary stimulant to whet my appetite for marvels, and a most unnecessary one, I can assure you, for I am absolutely agape with curiosity. Do go on. Tell me exactly what had happened to you.”
Now the truth is that I had already said rather more than was strictly discreet and would gladly have drawn in my horns. But I had evidently let myself in for some sort of plausible explanation, and a lack of that enviable faculty that enables its possessor to tell a really convincing and workmanlike lie, condemned me to a mere unimaginative adherence to the bald facts, though I did make one slight and amateurish effort at prevarication.
“You want a detailed log of Sinbad’s voyages, do you?” said I. “Then you shall have it. We will begin at the beginning. The port of departure was the Embankment somewhere near Cleopatra’s Needle. I was leaning over the parapet, staring down at the water like a fool, when some practical joker came along, and, apparently thinking it would be rather funny to give me a fright, suddenly lifted me off my feet. But my jocose friend hadn’t allowed for the top-heaviness of a person of my height, and, before you could say ‘knife,’ I had slipped from his hold and taken a most stylish header into the water. Fortunately for me, a barge happened at the moment to be towing past, and, when I had managed to haul myself on board, I fell into the arms of a marine species of Good Samaritan, who, not having a supply of the orthodox oil and wine, proceeded to fill me up with hot gin and water, which is distinctly preferable for internal application. Then the Samaritan aforesaid clothed me in gorgeous marine raiment and stowed me in a cupboard to sleep off the oil and wine, which I did after some sixteen hours, and then awoke to find our good ship on the broad bosom of the ocean. And so—not to weary you with the incidents of the voyage—I came to Folkestone, where I found a beautiful lady endeavouring, very unsuccessfully, to hypnotize a run-away horse; and so to the adventure of the tarred nets and the ancient mariner with the black bottle.”
Mrs. Samway smiled a little consciously as I mentioned the last incidents, but the smile quickly faded and left a deeply thoughtful expression on her face. “You take it all very calmly,” said she, “but it seems to me to have been a rather terrible experience. You really had a very narrow escape from death.”
“Yes; quite near enough. I’m far from wanting any more from the same tap.”
“And I don’t quite see why you assume that it was a mere clumsy joke that sent you into the river by accident.”
“Why, what else could it have been?”
“It looks more like a deliberate attempt to drown you. Perhaps you have some enemy who might want to make away with you.”
“I haven’t. There isn’t a soul in the world who owes me the slightest grudge.”
“That seems rather a bold thing to say, but I suppose you know. Still, I should think you ought to bear this strange affair in mind, and be a little careful when you go out at night; to avoid the riverside, for instance. Have you—did you give any information to the police about this accident, as you call it?”
“Good Lord! No! What would have been the use?”
“I thought you might have given them some description of the man who pushed you over.”
“But I never saw him. I don’t even know for certain that it was a man. It might have been a woman for all that I can tell.”
Mrs. Samway looked, up at me with that strangely penetrating expression that I had seen before in those singular, pale eyes of hers. “You don’t mean that?” she said. “You don’t really think that it could have been a woman?”
“I don’t think very much about it; but as I never saw the person who did me the honour of hoisting me overboard, I am clearly not in a position to depose as to the sex of that person. But if it was a woman, she must have been an uncommonly strong one.”
Mrs. Samway continued to look at me questioningly. “I thought you seemed to hint at a suspicion that it actually was a woman. You would surely be able to tell.”
“I suppose I should if there were time to think about the matter; but, you see, before I was fairly aware that anyone had hold of me, I was stick
ing my head into the mud at the bottom of the river, which is a process that does not tend very much to clarify one’s thoughts.”
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But it is a most mysterious and dreadful affair. I can’t think how you can take it so calmly. You don’t seem to be in the least concerned by the fact that you have been within a hairsbreadth of being murdered. What do your friends think about it?”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Samway,” I replied evasively, “one doesn’t talk much about incidents of this kind. It doesn’t sound very credible, and one doesn’t want to gain a reputation as a sort of modern Munchausen. I shouldn’t have told you but that you were already partly in the secret and that you cross-examined me in such a determined fashion.”
“But,” she exclaimed, “do you mean to tell me that you have said nothing to anyone about this extraordinary adventure of yours?”
“No, I don’t say that. Of course, I had to give some sort of explanation to my landlady, for instance, but I didn’t tell her all that I have told you; and I would rather, if you don’t mind, that you didn’t mention the affair to anyone. I should hate to be suspected of romancing.”
“You shan’t be through anything that I may say,” she replied, “though I should hardly think that anyone who knew you would be likely to suspect you of inventing imaginary adventures.”
For some minutes after this we walked on without speaking, and, from time to time, I stole a glance at my companion. And, once again, I found myself impressed by something distinctive and unusual in her appearance. Her unquestionable beauty was not like that of most pretty women, localized and unequal, having features of striking attractiveness set in an indifferent or even defective matrix. It was diffused and all pervading, the product of sheer physical excellence. With most women one feels that the more attractive wares are judiciously pushed to the front of the window while a discreet reticence is maintained respecting the unpresentable residue. Not so with Mrs. Samway. Her small, shapely head, her symmetrical face, her fine supple figure, and her easy movements, all spoke of a splendid physique. She was not merely a pretty woman, she was that infinitely rarer creature, a physically perfect human being; comely with the comeliness of faultless proportion, graceful with the grace of symmetry and strength.
A Silent Witness Page 17