"Fairly well," she answered, with a half-suppressed sigh. "When you are away I miss our meetings so much, and am often dull and miserable."

"Without me, eh?" I laughed.

"Life in London is terribly monotonous," she said as I pushed the dessert-plate aside, and lit a cigarette. "I often wish I were back in Stamford again. Here one can never make any friends."

"That's quite true," I replied, for only those who have come from the country to earn their bread know the utter loneliness of the great metropolis with its busy, hurrying millions. In London one may be a householder for ten years without knowing the name of one's next-door neighbour, and may live and work all one's life without making scarce a single friend. Thus the average shop-girl is usually friendless outside her own establishment unless she cares to mix with that crowd of clerks and others who are fond of "taking out" good-looking shop-a.s.sistants.

I often felt sorry for Muriel, knowing how dull and monotonous was her life, but while I sat chatting to her that evening a vision of another face rose before me--the pale face with the strange blue eyes, the beautiful countenance of the mysterious Aline.

It seemed very much as if Roddy knew my mysterious friend. If so, it also seemed more than likely that I had been deceived in her; because was not Roddy a well-known man about town, and what more likely than that he had met her in London? To me, however, she had declared that she had only arrived in London a week before, and had never been out.

Whatever was the explanation, Roddy's concern at hearing her name was certainly extraordinary.

I therefore resolved to seek her again, and obtain some explanation.

Why, I wondered, had she made that vague prophecy of evil which would befall me if we continued our acquaintanceship? It was all very extraordinary. The more I thought of it, the more puzzling became the facts.

CHAPTER FOUR.

NOT COUNTING THE COST.

The afternoon was damp, chilly, and cheerless as I stood at my window awaiting Aline. I had written to her, and after some days received a reply addressed from somewhere in South London declining to accept my invitation, but in response to a second and more pressing letter I had received a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.

Outside, it was growing gloomy. The _matinee_ at the Garrick Theatre was over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways, while the long string of light carts belonging to the _Pall Mall Gazette_ stood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of that journal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the people pa.s.sing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a bright fire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception of the dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.

Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of my thoughts when I reflected upon Aline's bewitching beauty.

Moments pa.s.sed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her, but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed, the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carried on all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she had appointed was half-past four.

Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my pretty companion of that night was ushered in by Simes.

"I'm late," she said apologetically. "I trust you will forgive me."

"It is a lady's privilege to be late," I responded, taking her hand, and welcoming her gladly.

She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressed extremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same she had worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet she was dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited her pale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe.

As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to notice how neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how small was the little pointed shoe.

"Why did you ask me to come here?" she asked, with a slightly nervous laugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.

"Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether," I answered. "If you had refused, I should have come to you."

"At Ellerdale Road?" she exclaimed in alarm.

"Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?"

"No," she exclaimed in all seriousness. "Promise me you will not seek me--never."

"I can scarcely promise that," I laughed. "But why were you so reluctant to come here again?" I inquired.

"Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry," she replied.

"Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.

But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.

"I'm extremely pleased to see you," I said, and in response to my summons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefully handing me my cup.

"I'm of course very pleased to come and see you like this," she said when my man had gone; "but if my aunt knew, she wouldn't like it."

"I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn't she?"

"Oh yes," she replied with a smile. "We've often laughed over my absurd ignorance of London."

"Do you intend to live always with your aunt?"

"Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps evil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,"

and she sighed as she added, "I am one of those."

I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in her hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had involuntarily escaped her.

"I don't understand?" I said, puzzled. "Are you a fatalist?"

"I'm not quite certain," she answered, in an undecided tone. "As I have already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I bring upon those who are my friends."

"But explain to me," I exclaimed, interested. "Of what nature is this evil? It is surely not inevitable?"

"Yes," she responded, in a calm, low voice, "it is inevitable. You have been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any unhappiness."

"I really can't help thinking that you view things rather gloomily," I said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.

"I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the accursed among their fellows."

Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never been discovered.

About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to suspect that she was not what she seemed--pure, innocent, and womanly.

Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her a.s.sertion as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk behind such a face as hers?

"You are not one of the accursed," I protested, smiling.

"But I am!" she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then, starting forward, she exclaimed, "Oh! why did you press me to come here, to you?"

"Because I count you among my friends," I responded. "To see me and drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me."

"But it will!" she cried in agitation. "Have I not told you that evil follows in my footsteps--that those who are my friends always suffer the penalty of my friendship?"

"You speak like a prophetess," I laughed.

"Ah! you don't believe me!" she exclaimed. "I see you don't. You will never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you."