"I don't like the look of things?" Gray muttered to Freda, who sat beside him. "We've only got away in the nick of time. The police might have been upon us before morning. We'll have to be extremely careful."

And then a silence fell between them as they drove through the pelting rain. Once again they had wriggled out of an awkward situation.

At a first-floor window of an ancient half-timbered house in a narrow, dingy street behind the cathedral in quaint old Bayeux, in Normandy, a pretty, fair-haired young girl was silting in the sunshine, her hands lying idly in her lap.

It was noon. The ill-paved street below--a street of sixteenth-century houses with heavy carved woodwork and quaint gables--was deserted, as the great bell of the magnificent old cathedral, built by Odo, the bishop, after the Norman Conquest of Britain, boomed forth the hour of twelve.

The girl did not move or speak. She seldom did, because first, her blue eyes were fixed and sightless, and, secondly, she was always strange of manner.

Jean Nicole, the boot-repairer, and his wife, with whom the girl lived, were honest country folk of Normandy. Both came from Vaubadon, a remote little village on the road to St Lo. After the war they had moved to Bayeux, when one day they chanced to see an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _Ouest Eclair_, an advertis.e.m.e.nt inviting a trustworthy married couple to take charge of a young lady who was slightly mentally deficient, and offering a good recompense.

They answered the advertis.e.m.e.nt, with the result that they were invited to the Hotel de l'Univers at St Malo, where the worthy pair were shown up to a private sitting-room wherein sat a well-dressed Englishman and a smartly-attired woman, his wife.

They explained that they had been left in charge of the young lady in question, who was unfortunately blind. Her father's sudden death, by accident, had so preyed upon her mind that it had become deranged.

The man, who gave the name of Mr Hugh Ford, explained that he and his wife were sailing from Havre to New York on business on the following Sat.u.r.day, and they required someone to look after the unfortunate young lady during their absence. Would Monsieur and Madame Nicole do so?

The boot-repairer and his stout spouse, eager to increase their income, expressed their readiness, and within an hour arrangements were made, an agreement drawn up by which the pair were to receive from a bank in Paris a certain monthly sum for mademoiselle's maintenance, and the young lady was introduced to them.

Her affliction of blindness was pitiable. Her eyes seemed fixed as she groped her way across the room, and it was with difficulty that her guardian made her understand that she was going to live with new friends.

At last she uttered two words only in English.

"I understand."

The middle-aged Frenchman and his wife knew no English, while it seemed that the young lady knew no French.

"Her name is Betty Grayson," explained Mr Ford, speaking in French.

"She seldom speaks. Yet at times she will, perhaps, become talkative, and will probably tell you in English some absurd story or other, always highly dramatic, about some terrible crime. But, as I tell you, Monsieur Nicole, her mind is unhinged, poor girl! So take no notice of her fantastic imagination."

"_Tres bien, monsieur_," replied the dark-faced boot-repairer. "I quite follow. Poor mademoiselle!"

"Yes. Her affliction is terribly unfortunate. You see her condition-- quite hopeless, alas! She must have complete mental rest. To be in the presence of people unduly excites her, therefore it is best to keep her indoors as much as possible. And when she goes out, let it be at night when n.o.body is about."

"I understand, monsieur."

"The best London specialists on mental diseases have already examined her. Poor Betty! They have told me her condition, therefore, if she gets worse it will be useless to call in a doctor. And she may get worse," he added meaningly, after a pause.

"And when will monsieur and madame be back?" inquired Madame Nicole.

"It is quite impossible to tell how long my business will take," was Mr Ford's reply. "We shall leave Havre by the _Homeric_ on Sat.u.r.day, and I hope we shall be back by November. But your monthly payments will be remitted to you by the Credit Lyonnais until our return."

So the pair had gone back by train from St Malo to quiet old Bayeux, to that dingy, ramshackle old house a few doors from that ancient mansion, now the museum in which is preserved in long gla.s.s cases the wonderful strip of linen cloth worked in outline by Queen Matilda and her ladies, representing the Conquest of England by her husband, William of Normandy, and the overthrow of Harold--one of the treasures of our modern world. On the way there they found that Miss Grayson could speak French.

The rooms to which they brought the poor sightless English mademoiselle were small and frowsy. The atmosphere was close, and pervaded by the odour of a stack of old boots which Monsieur Nicole kept in the small back room, in which he cut leather and hammered tacks from early morn till nightfall.

From the front window at which the girl sat daily, inert and uninterested, a statuesque figure, silent and sightless, a good view could be obtained of the wonderful west facade of the magnificent Gothic Cathedral, the bells of which rang forth their sweet musical carillon four times each hour.

Summer sightseers who, with guide-book in hand, pa.s.sed up the old Rue des Chanoines to the door of the Cathedral, she heard, but she could not see. Americans, of whom there were many, and a sprinkling of English, chattered and laughed upon their pilgrimage to the magnificent masterpiece of the Conqueror's half-brother, and some of them glanced up and wondered at the motionless figure seated staring out straight before her.

It is curious how very few English travellers ever go to Bayeux, the cradle of their race, and yet how many Americans are interested in the famous tapestries and the marvellous monument in stone.

On that warm noon as Betty Grayson sat back in the window, silent and motionless, her brain suddenly became stirred, as it was on occasions, by recollections, weird, horrible and fantastic.

Madame Nicole, in her full black dress and the curious muslin cap of the shape that has been worn for centuries by the villagers of Vaubadon--for each village in Normandy has its own fashion in women's caps so that the denizens of one village can, in the markets, be distinguished from those of another--crossed the room from the heavy, old oak sideboard, laying the midday meal. In the room beyond Jean, her husband, was earning his daily bread tapping, and ever tapping upon the boots.

"Madame," exclaimed the girl, rising with a suddenness which caused the boot-repairer's wife to start. "There is a strange man below. He keeps pa.s.sing and re-pa.s.sing and looking up at me."

The stout, stolid Frenchwoman in her neat and spotless cap started, and smiled good-humouredly.

"Then you can see at last--eh?" she cried. "Perhaps he is only some sightseer from the Agence Cook." The woman was astounded at the sudden recovery of the girl's sight.

"No. I do not think so. He looks like an English business man. Come and see," said the girl.

Madame crossed to the window, but only two women were in sight, neighbours who lived across the way, and with them was old Abbe Laugee who had just left his confessional and was on his way home to _dejeuner_.

"Ah! He's gone!" the girl said in French. "I saw him pa.s.sing along last evening, and he seemed to be greatly interested in this house."

"He may perhaps have a friend living above us," suggested Madame Nicole.

Scarcely had she replied, however, when a knock was heard at the outside door, which, on being opened, revealed the figure of a rather tall, spruce-looking Englishman, well-dressed in a dark grey suit.

"I beg pardon, madame," he said in good French, "but I believe you have a Mademoiselle Grayson living with you?"

Ere the woman could speak the girl rushed forward, and staring straight into the face of the man, cried:

"Why! It's--it's actually Mr Porter!"

The man laughed rather uneasily, though he well concealed his chagrin.

He had believed that she was blind.

"I fear you have mistaken me for somebody else," he said. Then, turning to the woman, he remarked: "This is Miss Grayson, I suppose?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Ah! Then she imagines me to be somebody named Porter--eh?" he remarked in a tone of pity.

"I imagine nothing," declared the girl vehemently. "I used to, but I am now growing much better, and I begin to recollect. I recognise you as Mr Arthur Porter, whom I last saw at Willowden, near Welwyn. And you know it is the truth."

The man shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Madame Nicole said in French:

"I have heard that mademoiselle is suffering from--well, from hallucinations."

"Yes, monsieur, she does. For days she will scarcely speak. Her memory comes and goes quite suddenly. And she has to-day recovered her sight."

"That is true," replied the pretty blue-eyed girl. "I recognise this gentleman as Mr Arthur Porter," she cried again. "I recollect many things--that night at Farncombe when--when I learnt the truth, and then lost my reason."

"Take no notice, monsieur," the woman urged. "Poor mademoiselle! She tells us some very odd stories sometimes--about a young man whom she calls Monsieur Willard. She says he was murdered."