"And haven't you seen her ladyship at all, sir?" she inquired, in her turn astonished.

"No, and, moreover, I know nothing of this mysterious woman who came to you with this c.o.c.k-and-bull story. Did she say where she lived, or give any card?"

"No, she didn't, sir."

"I suppose you'd know her again if you saw her?"

"Well," she answered with considerable hesitancy, "I don't know as I should, sir. You see, she wore one of them white lace veils which makes it difficult to distinguish the features."

"But what object could any one have in coming to you and telling a falsehood in that manner?" I cried, my anger increased by the knowledge of Parker's inability to again recognise the bearer of the false message.

"I don't know, I'm sure, sir," was the woman's reply, in a voice which showed how deeply she regretted the occurrence.

"How long was she here?" I inquired.

"About five minutes. She asked me to let her see your sitting-room and the reading-books with the embossed letters, as she was much interested in you, and had heard so much of you from Lady Durrant."

"And you showed them to her?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you had no right to do so without my permission, Parker," I said angrily. "You are an old and trusted servant, and should have known better."

"I'm very sorry, sir. The truth was that she seemed such a well-spoken lady, and her manner was so perfect that I thought you would not like to offend her."

"Recollect that if any other persons call they are not to enter my rooms on any pretext," I said decisively.

"Very well, sir. I acknowledge that I was entirely in the wrong in allowing her to pry about the place."

"And when she had gone?"

"Then I went over to the butcher's in the Strand to get a bit of steak."

"And saw nothing more of her?"

"Yes, sir. I did see her again. As I was coming back I met her in the Strand, at the corner of Arundel Street, walking with a gentleman who looked like a City man. She said something to him, and he turned and had a good look at me."

"Then it must have been this same woman who was in my chambers here when I returned," I said.

"A woman here?" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Yes; when I entered there was a woman here, and she escaped as though she were a thief. She must have gone out and rejoined the man, who was awaiting her somewhere in the vicinity. That would bear out the fact that you encountered her again."

"But how could she get in? I'm always careful to see that the door is properly closed."

"Probably she stole the extra latch-key while prying about the place.

See whether it is still on the nail." She crossed the room, and next moment gasped--"It's gone, sir!"

"Ah!" I said. "Just as I thought! The story she told you was a mere excuse to obtain admittance to the place, and, if possible, to get possession of the key. This she obtained, and, having watched you out, returned and continued her search for something she desired to secure.

We must at once examine the whole place, and seek to discover what's been stolen."

"Do you think she was a common thief, sir?" inquired Parker, dumbfounded by the ingenuity with which the latch-key had been secured.

"I don't know what to believe at present," I answered. "We must investigate first, and form our conclusions afterwards. Now, make a thorough search and see what has been disturbed and what is missing."

I had no intention of entering into a long explanation with Parker regarding the events of that fateful night, or to disturb her peace of mind by relating any of the tragic circ.u.mstances. Therefore, I went to my room and locked away my muddy, blood-stained clothing, and afterwards returned, and with my hands felt the various objects in my sitting-room, to a.s.sure myself that none was displaced or missing.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE STRANGER.

The visit of this mysterious woman in the white lace veil--at that time a fashionable feminine adornment--was, I felt a.s.sured, more than a coincidence. That it had some connexion with the strange events of the past night seemed certain, yet, try how I would, I could form no definite idea of either the motive of the visit or the object of her search. As far as Parker could discover, nothing whatever had been taken. A writing-table, the drawers of which contained some family papers, had apparently been hastily examined, but no object of value, nor any paper, had been extracted. Therefore I concluded that I had returned before the intruder had had time to make the complete examination of my effects which she had intended.

A curious thought occurred to me. Was the intruder in the white veil none other than the mysterious Edna herself?

As the day wore on I became more and more impressed by the belief that my surmise was the actual truth. Yet the cabman West had declared that she was young and pretty, while Parker expressed herself positive that she was middle-aged. But of the two statements I accepted that of the cabman as the more reliable. He had seen her in the broad daylight without the veil.

The fact of her concealing her features in a species of fine window-curtain proved an attempt at disguise, therefore what more likely than that she should contrive to render her features older, and thus impose upon Parker, whose sight was not over good? In any case, however, if it were really Edna, she had certainly lost no time in carrying out her design, and further, she must have been fully aware of my intended return.

Days pa.s.sed, hot blazing days and stifling nights, when the dust of throbbing, ever-roaring London seemed over my heart. Each morning, with Parker's a.s.sistance, I searched the newspapers, but nothing appeared to show that that strange midnight crime had been discovered. Were there two victims, or only one? How strange it was that although I had been present I could not tell I only knew that the male victim was young and well-dressed, probably a gentleman, and that he had been stabbed by a cowardly blow which had proved almost instantly fatal. That woman's scream that had sounded so shrill and agonised in the dead stillness of the night I remembered plainly as though it were but an hour ago-- indeed, I remember it now as distinctly as ever. Was it the cry of Edna herself?

In my helplessness I could do nothing but remain silent, and keep my terrible secret to myself. Unable either to communicate with the police or seek the a.s.sistance of my friend, I found that any endeavour to seek a solution of the problem was mere sowing of the wind. My thoughts hour by hour, as I sat alone in my dingy room, my poor blind eyes a black void, were of the ghastly affair, and in all its phases I considered it, trying to find some motive in the subsequent actions of the unscrupulous persons into whose hands I had had the misfortune to fall.

I heard of d.i.c.k through the office of his journal. He was down with fever at some outlandish place on the Afghan frontier, and would certainly not be home for a couple of months or so.

At first I was puzzled how to get rid of my soiled and blood-stained clothes so that Parker should not discover them, and at last hit upon the expedient of making them into a bundle and going forth one night when she was over at Kennington with her daughter Lily, the dancing-girl, and casting them into the Thames from the Embankment. It was a risky operation, for that part of London is well guarded by police after dark; nevertheless I accomplished it in safety, and was much amused a few days later by reading in an evening paper that they had been found near London Bridge and handed over to the river police, who, of course, scented a mystery. The blood-stains puzzled them, and the journal hinted that Scotland Yard had inst.i.tuted inquiries into the ownership of the discarded suit of clothes. The paragraph concluded with that sentence, indispensable in reporting a mystery, "The police are very reticent about the matter."

Fortunately, having cut out the maker's name, and taken everything from the pockets which might serve as a clue to ownership, I felt perfectly safe, and eagerly read the issue of the same journal on the following evening, which told how the stains had been a.n.a.lysed, and found to be those of human blood.

A little more than a week had pa.s.sed since my remarkable midnight adventure, when one morning I received a brief note by post, which Parker read to me. It consisted of only two typewritten lines stating that at mid-day I would receive a visitor, and was signed with the strange word "AVEL."

It was, I knew, a message from Edna, and I dressed myself with greater care in expectation that she herself would visit me. In this, however, I was disappointed, for after existing some three hours on tiptoe with anxiety I found my visitor to be a well-spoken, middle-aged man, whose slight accent when introducing himself betrayed that he was an American.

When we were alone, with the door closed, he made the following explanation--

"I have called upon you, Mr Heaton, at the request of a lady who is our mutual friend. You have, I presume, received a letter signed `Avel'?"

"Yes," I said, remembering how that I had promised to blindly and obediently render my protectress whatever a.s.sistance she desired. "I presume you desire some service of me. What is it?"

"No," he said. "You are mistaken. It is with regard to the terrible affliction from which I see you are suffering that I have been sent."

"Are you a medical man?" I inquired, with some astonishment.

"I am an oculist," was his reply.

"And your name?"

"Slade--James Slade."