But it has pa.s.sed now."

My eyes wandered to those curtains of green plush. How I longed to enter that room beyond!

At that moment she took out her handkerchief. Even that action added to the completion of the mental picture I had formed. Her tiny square of lawn and lace exhaled a sweet odour. It was that of _peau d'Espagne_, the same subtle perfume used by the mysterious Edna! It filled my nostrils until I seemed intoxicated by its fragrance combined with her beauty.

Her dress was discreetly _decollete_, and as she sat chatting to me with that bright vivaciousness which was so charming, her white neck slowly heaved and fell. She had, it seemed, been striving all the evening to get a tete-a-tete chat with me, but the chatter of that dreadful Irritating Woman and the requests made by Hickman had prevented her.

As she gossiped with me, now and then waving her big feather fan, she conveyed to my mind an impression of extreme simplicity in the midst of the most wonderful complexity. She seemed to take the peculiar traits from many characters, and so mingle them that, like the combination of hues in a sunbeam, the effect was as one to the eye. I had studied her carefully each time we had met, and had found that she had something of the romantic enthusiasm of a Juliet, of the truth and constancy of a Helen, of the dignified purity of an Isabel, of the tender sweetness of a Viola, of the self-possession and intellect of a Portia--combined together so equally and so harmoniously that I could scarcely say that one quality predominated over the other. Her dignity was imposing, and stood rather upon the defensive; her submission, though unbounded, was not pa.s.sive, and thus she stood wholly distinct in her sweetness from any woman I had ever met.

The following day was one on which she was due to take her music-lesson, and I inquired whether I might, as usual, meet her and escort her across the Park.

"You are really very kind," she responded; "but I fear I take up far too much of your time."

"Not at all," I hastened to a.s.sure her. "I always enjoy our walks together."

She smiled, but a moment later said--

"I fear that I shall be prevented from going to Hanover Square to-morrow, as I shall be making calls with mother. We've been neglecting to call of late, and have such a host to make."

"Then I shan't see you at all to-morrow?" I said in deep disappointment.

"No, I fear not," she answered. "As a matter of fact, my movements for the next few days are rather uncertain."

"But you'll write and tell me when you are free?" I urged earnestly.

"If you wish," she responded, smiling sweetly. Apparently she was in no wise averse to my companionship, a fact which had become to me more apparent now that she had induced her mother to invite me to their table.

I endeavoured to extract from her some appointment, but she only whispered--

"Remember that our meetings are clandestine. Don't let them overhear us. Let's change the subject." And then she began to discuss several of the latest novels.

She had apparently a wide knowledge of French fiction, for she explained how a friend of hers, an old schoolfellow, who had married a French baron and lived in Paris, sent her regularly all the notable novels. Of English fiction, too, she was evidently a constant reader, for she told me much about recent novels that I was unaware of, and criticised style in a manner which betrayed a deep knowledge of her subject.

"One would almost think you were a lady novelist, or a book-reviewer," I remarked, in response to a sweeping condemnation which she made regarding the style of a much-belauded writer.

"Well, personally, I like books with some grit in them," she declared.

"I can't stand either the so-called problem novel, or a story interlarded with dialect. If any one wants nasty problems, let them spend a few shillings in the works of certain French writers, who turn out books on the most unwholesome themes they can imagine, and fondly believe themselves realists. We don't want these _queue-de-siecle_ works in England. Let us stick to the old-fashioned story of love, adventure, or romance. English writers are now beginning to see the mistake they once made in trying to follow the French style, and are turning to the real legitimate novel of action--the one that interests and grips from the first page to the last."

She spoke sensibly, and I expressed my entire accord with her opinion.

But this discussion was only in order to hide our exchange of confidences uttered in an undertone while Hickman and the two ladies were chatting at the further end of the room.

All the time I was longing to get a sight of the interior of the adjoining apartment, the room whence had burst forth that woman's agonised cry in the stillness of the night. I racked my brain to find some means of entering there, but could devise none. A guest can hardly wander over his hostess's house on the first occasion he receives an invitation. Besides, to betray any interest in the house might, I reflected, arouse some suspicion. To be successful in these inquiries would necessitate the most extreme caution.

The fragrant odour of _peau d'Espagne_ exhaled by her chiffons seemed to hold me powerless.

The gilt clock with its swinging girl had already struck eleven on its silver bell, and been re-echoed by another clock in the hall playing the Westminster chimes, when suddenly Mrs Anson, with a book in her hand, looked across to her daughter, saying--

"Mabel, dear, I've left my gla.s.ses on the table in the library. Will you kindly fetch them for me?"

In an instant I saw my chance, and, jumping to my feet, offered to obtain them. At first she objected, but finding me determined, said--

"The library is the next room, there. You'll find them on the writing-table. Mother always leaves them there. It's really too bad to thus make a servant of you. I'll ring for Arnold."

"No, no," I protested, and at once went eagerly in search of them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE INNER ROOM.

The adjoining room was, I found, in the front part of the house--a rather small one, lined on one side with books, but furnished more as a boudoir than a library, for there were several easy-chairs, a work-table, and a piano in a corner. At this instrument the mysterious player had on that night sat executing Chopin's "Andante-Spinato" the moment before it became interrupted by some tragic and unexpected spectacle. I glanced around and noted that the furniture and carpet were worn and faded, that the books were dusty and evidently unused, and that the whole place presented an air of neglect, and had nothing whatever in keeping with the gorgeousness of the other handsome apartments.

The gla.s.ses were, as Mrs Anson had said, lying beside the blotting-pad upon a small rosewood writing-table. I took them up, and, having made a tour of inspection, was about to leave the place, when suddenly, on the top of some books upon a shelf close to the door, I espied a small volume.

The curious incident of the birthday book occurred to me; therefore I took down the little volume and found that it really was a birthday book. No name was inscribed on the t.i.tle-page as owner, but there were many names scribbled therein. In swift eagerness I turned to the page of my own birthday--the 2nd of July. It was blank.

I stood pondering with the book still in my hand. The absence of my name there proved one or two things, either I had not signed a birthday book at all, or, if I had, it was not the one I had discovered. Now, there are frequently two birthday-books in one house, therefore I resolved, ere I gave the matter reflection, to prosecute my investigations further and ascertain whether there was not a second book.

With this object I made a second tour around the room, noting the position of every article of furniture. Some music lay scattered beside the piano, and, on turning it over, I found the actual copy of Chopin's "Andante" which had been played on the night of the tragedy. The cover had been half torn away, but, on examining it closely beneath the light, I detected plainly a small smear of blood upon it.

Truly the house was one of mystery. In that room several persons had drunk champagne on that memorable night when blind Fate led me thither; in that room a woman had, according to the man's shout of alarm, been foully done to death, although of this latter fact I was not altogether sure. At any rate, however, it was plain that some tragic event had previously taken place there, as well as in that room beyond where I had reclined blind and helpless. It was strange also that the apartment should remain neglected and undusted, as though the occupants entertained some dislike to it. But I had been absent long enough, and, returning to the drawing-room with the missing gla.s.ses, handed them to Mrs Anson.

Hickman had, in my absence, crossed to Mabel, and was sitting beside her in earnest conversation, therefore I was compelled to seat myself with my hostess and the Irritating Woman and chat with them. But ere long I contrived again to reach the side of the woman whom I adored, and to again press her for an appointment.

"It is far better forme to write to you," she answered, beneath her breath. "As I've told you, we have so many calls to make and cards to leave."

"Your mother tells me that you have a box for the Prince of Wales's on Sat.u.r.day night, and has asked me to join you," I said. Her eyes brightened, and I saw that she was delighted at the prospect. But she expressed a hope that I wouldn't be bored.

"Bored!" I echoed. "Why, I'm never bored when in your company. I fear that it's the other way about--that I bore you."

"Certainly not," she responded decisively. "I very soon contrive to give persons who are bores their _conge_. Mother accuses me of rudeness to them sometimes, but I a.s.sure you I really can't help being positively insulting. Has mother asked you to dine on Sat.u.r.day?"

"Yes," I answered. "But shan't I see you before then?"

"No; I think it is very unlikely. We'll have a jolly evening on Sat.u.r.day."

"But I enjoy immensely those walks across the Park," I blurted forth in desperation.

"And I also," she admitted with a sweet frankness. "But this week it is utterly impossible to make any arrangements."

Mention of the theatre afforded me an opportunity of putting to her a question upon which, during the past couple of hours, I had reflected deeply.

"You've, of course, been to the Exhibition at Earl's Court, living here in the immediate vicinity," I said.

"I've only been once," she answered. "Although we've had this house nearly two years, exhibitions don't appeal to me very much. I was there at night, and the gardens were prettily illuminated, I thought."

"Yes," I said. "With the exception of the gardens, there is far too much pasteboard scenic effect. I suppose you noticed that serrated line of mountains over which the eternal switchback runs? Those self-same mountains, repainted blue, grey, or purple, with tips of snow, have, within my personal knowledge, done duty as the Alps, the Pyrenees, the Rockies, and the Atlas, not counting half a dozen other notable ranges."

She laughed, slowly fanning herself the while.