A week pa.s.sed, and I still remained at the _Grand_, going forth each day, wandering hither and thither, but never entering the club or going to places where I thought it likely that I might be recognised. I could not return to the life at Denbury with that angular woman at the head of my table--the woman who called herself my wife. If I returned I felt that the mystery of it all must drive me to despair, and I should, in a fit of desperation, commit suicide.

I ask any of those who read this strange history of my life, whether they consider themselves capable of remaining calm and tranquil in such circ.u.mstances, or of carefully going over all the events in their sequence and considering them with logical reasoning. I tried to do so, but in vain. For hours I sat within the hotel smoking and thinking. I was living an entirely false life, existing in the fear of recognition by unknown friends, and the constant dread that sooner or later I must return to that hated life in Devonshire.

That a hue-and-cry had been raised regarding my disappearance was plain from a paragraph which I read in one of the morning papers about ten days after my departure from Denbury. In the paragraph I was designated as "a financier well known in the City," and it was there stated that I had left my home suddenly "after betraying signs of insanity," and had not since been heard of.

"Insanity!" I laughed bitterly as I read those lines supplied by the Exeter correspondent of the Central News. The police had, no doubt, received my description, and were actively on the watch to trace me and restore me to my "friends."

For nearly a fortnight I had been in hiding, and was now on the verge of desperation. By means of one of the cheques I had taken from Denbury I succeeded in drawing a good round sum without my bankers being aware of my address, and was contemplating going abroad in order to avoid the possibility of being put under restraint as a lunatic, when one evening, in the dusky, sunset, I went forth and wandered down Northumberland Avenue to the Victoria Embankment. In comparison with the life and bustle of the Strand and Trafalgar Square, the wide roadway beside the Thames is always quiet and reposeful. Upon that same pavement over which I now strolled in the direction of the Temple I had, in the days of my blindness, taken my lessons in walking alone. That pavement had been my practice-ground on summer evenings under the tender guidance of poor old Parker, the faithful servant now lost to me. My eyesight had now grown as strong as that of other men. The great blank in my mind was all that distinguished me from my fellows. During those past fourteen days I had been probing a period which I had not lived, and ascertaining by slow degrees the events of my unknown past.

And as I strolled along beneath the plane trees over that broad pavement I recollected that the last occasion I had been there was on that memorable evening when I had lost myself, and was subsequently present at the midnight tragedy in that house of mystery. I gazed around.

In the ornamental gardens, bright with geraniums, some tired Londoners were taking their ease upon the seats provided by that most paternal of all metropolitan inst.i.tutions, the London County Council; children were shouting as they played at ball and hopscotch, that narrow strip of green being, alas! all they knew of Nature's beauty outside their world of bricks and mortar. The slight wind stirred the dusty foliage of the trees beneath which I walked, while to the left river-steamers belched forth volumes of black smoke, and barges slowly floated down with the tide. On either side were great buildings, and straight before the dome of St Paul's. Over all was that golden, uncertain haze which in central London is called sunset, the light which so quickly turns to cold grey, without any of those glories of crimson and gold which those in the country a.s.sociate with the summer sun's decline.

That walk induced within me melancholy thoughts of a wasted life. I loved Mabel Anson--I loved her with all my soul. Now that marriage with her was no longer within the range of possibility I was inert and despairing, utterly heedless of everything. I had, if truth be told, no further desire for life. All joy within me was now blotted out.

At length, at Blackfriars Bridge, I retraced my steps, and some twenty minutes later, as I took my key from the hotel bureau, the clerk handed me a note, addressed to "Burton Lawrence, Esquire," the fict.i.tious name I had given. It had been delivered by boy-messenger.

Then I was discovered! My heart leapt into my mouth.

I tore open the envelope, and read its contents. They were brief and to the point.

"The undersigned will be obliged," it ran, "if Mr Burton Lawrence will be present this evening at eight o'clock, in the main-line booking-office of the Brighton Railway, at Victoria Station. An interview is of very pressing importance."

The note was signed, by that single word which had always possessed such mysterious signification, the word "Avel."

Hitherto, in my old life long ago, receipt of communications from that mysterious correspondent had caused me much anxiety of mind. I had always feared their advent; now, however, I actually welcomed it, even though it were strange and unaccountable that the unknown writer should know my whereabouts and the name beneath which I had sought to conceal my ident.i.ty.

I made a hasty dinner in the coffee-room, and went forthwith to Victoria, wondering whom I should meet. The last time I had kept one of those strange appointments on that summer evening long ago in Hyde Park, I had come face to face with the woman I loved. Would that I could meet her now!

I entered the booking-office, searching it with eager eyes. Two lines of persons were taking tickets at the pigeon-holes, while a number of loungers were, like myself, awaiting friends. Beyond, upon the platform, all was bustle as is usual at that hour, when the belated portion of business London is bound for the southern suburbs. From that busy terminus of the West End trains were arriving and departing each minute.

The big illumined clock showed that it was yet five minutes to the hour.

Therefore I strolled out upon the platform, lounged around the bookstalls, and presently returned to the spot indicated in the letter.

As I re-entered the booking-office my eager eyes fell upon a figure standing before me--a well-dressed figure, with a face that smiled upon me.

An involuntary cry of surprise escaped my lips. The encounter was sudden and astounding; but in that instant, as I rushed forward to greet the new-comer, I knew myself to be on the verge of a startling and remarkable discovery.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE PERSON WHO KNEW.

The encounter was a startling one.

At the moment when my eyes first fell upon the figure standing patiently in the booking-office awaiting me, I halted for a second in uncertainty.

The silhouette before me was that of a youngish, brown-haired, and rather good-looking woman, neatly dressed in dead black, wearing a large hat and a feather boa round her neck.

By the expression of her face I saw that she had recognised me. I had, of course, never seen her before, yet her personal appearance--the grey eyes and brown hair--were exactly similar to those described so minutely on several occasions by West, the cab-driver. I regarded her for a moment in silent wonder, then advanced to meet her.

She was none other than the unknown woman who had saved my life on that fateful night at The Boltons--the mysterious Edna!

As I raised my hat she bowed gracefully, and with a merry smile, said: "I fear that, to you, I am a stranger. I recognise you, however, as Mr Heaton."

"That is certainly my name," I responded, still puzzled. "And you-- well, our recognition is, I believe, mutual--you are Edna."

She glanced at me quickly, as though suspicious. "How did you know that?" she inquired. "You have never seen me before. You were totally blind on the last occasion we met."

"I recognised you from your description," I answered with a light laugh.

"My description!" she echoed in a tone of distinct alarm.

"Yes, the description given of you by the cabman who drove me home on that memorable morning."

"Ah! Of course," she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in sudden remembrance. Then, for a few seconds, she remained in silence. It seemed as though the fact that I had recognised her had somewhat confused her.

"But I am extremely glad that we have met at last," I a.s.sured her. "I have, times without number, hoped to have an opportunity of thanking you for the great services you once rendered me."

"I find with satisfaction that although six years have gone by you have not forgotten your promise made to me," she said, her large serious eyes fixed upon mine.

"I gave you that promise in exchange for my life," I remarked, as, at her suggestion, we turned and walked out of the station.

"And as acknowledgement of the service you rendered by preserving secret your knowledge of the events of that terrible night I was enabled to render you a small service in return," she said. "Your sight was restored to you."

"For that, how can I sufficiently thank you?" I exclaimed. "I owe it all to you, and rest a.s.sured that, although we have not met until this evening, I have never forgotten--nor shall I ever forget."

She smiled pleasantly, while I strolled slowly at her side across the station-yard.

To me those moments were like a dream. Edna, the woman who had hitherto been but a strange ghost of the past, was now actually beside me in the flesh.

"I have received other notes making appointments--the last, I think, a couple of years ago," I observed after a pause. "Did you not meet me then?"

She glanced at me with a puzzled expression. Of course she knew nothing of those lost years of my life.

"Meet you?" she repeated. "Certainly not."

"Who met me, then?"

"I really don't know," she answered. "This is the first time I have approached you, and I only come to you now in order to ask you to grant me a favour--a very great favour."

"A favour! What is it?"

"I cannot explain here, in the street," she said quickly. "If you will come to my hotel I will place the facts before you."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the _Bath Hotel_, in Arlington Street."

I knew the place well. It stood at the corner of Arlington Street and Piccadilly, and was an eminently respectable, old-fashioned place, patronised by a high-cla.s.s clientele.