"I have not said so. The word defy is scarcely one which should be used between us, I think, considering that our interests are to-day mutual-- just as they were on the night of the crime."

"I fail to see that," I answered. "I have no interest whatever in keeping this terrible secret hidden, for while I do so I am acting the part of accessory."

"But surely you have an interest in preserving your own life?" she urged.

"Then you imply that if I were to lay information at Scotland Yard I should be in peril of my life?" I asked, looking straight into those calm eyes that ever and anon seemed full of mystery.

"Of that I cannot speak with any degree of certainty," she responded.

"I would only warn you that in this matter continued silence is by far the best."

"But you have uttered a veiled threat!" I cried. "You are aware of the whole facts, and yet refuse to impart to me the simple information of the whereabouts of Mrs Anson. Do you think it possible in such a case that I can entertain any confidence in you, or in your extraordinary story regarding the affairs of Bulgaria and its Prince?"

"I am unable to give you any information regarding the lady you mention," she replied, with a slight frown of annoyance.

"But you are acquainted with her?"

"I may be--what then?"

"I demand to know where she is."

"And in reply I tell you that I am in ignorance."

"In that case," I said angrily, "I refuse to have any further dealings whatsoever with you. From the first I became drawn into a trap by you, bound down and for six years held silent by your threats. But, madam, I now tell you plainly of my intentions. I mean to-morrow to lay the whole facts before the Director of Criminal Investigations, including this story of yours regarding the Prince and his people."

She rose slowly from her chair, perfectly calm, her dignity unruffled.

Her manner was absolutely perfect. Had she been a princess herself she could not have treated my sudden ebullition of anger with greater disdain.

She gathered up the papers she had put before me, and, replacing them in the dispatch-box, locked it with the golden master-key upon her bangle.

Afterwards, she turned to me and said, in a hard distinct voice--

"Then I understand that I have to inform His Serene Highness that you refuse to a.s.sist him further?"

"Tell him whatever you choose, madam," I answered, rising and taking up my hat and cane. "I shall, in future, act according to my own inclinations."

"And at your own risk!" she added, in a harsh voice, as, bowing stiffly before her, I turned towards the door.

"Yes, madam," I answered; "I accept your challenge--at my own risk."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

MORE SCHEMING.

The mellow summer twilight was fast deepening into night as I strode along Piccadilly towards the Circus, after leaving the grey-eyed woman who held the secret.

What she had revealed to me was startling, yet the one fact which caused me more apprehension than all others was the curious means by which she had discovered my whereabouts. If she had been enabled to do this, then the police would, no doubt, very soon find me and return me to my so-called "friends."

In despair I thought of Mabel. Long ago I had surrendered my whole heart to her. She had at first placed a strong and high-minded confidence in me, judging me by her own lofty spirit, but that unaccountable rupture had occurred, and she had gone from me crushed and heart-broken. In my pocket I carried her letter, and the more I thought over it the more puzzled I became. Daily, hourly, I lamented over the broken and shattered fragments of all that was fairest on earth; I had been borne at once from calm, lofty, and delighted speculations into the very heart of fear and tribulations. My love for her was now ranked by myself as a fond record which I must erase for ever from my heart and brain. Once I had thought to link my destiny with hers; but, alas! I could not now marry her, nor could I reveal to her, knowing them not, the mysterious influences which had changed the whole current of my life and purposes. My secret burden was that of a heart bursting with its own unuttered grief.

The whole of the events swept past me like a torrent which hurried along in its dark and restless course all those about me towards some overwhelming catastrophe. Tormented by remorseful doubts and pursued by distraction, I felt a.s.sured that Mabel, in her unresisting tenderness, her mournful sweetness, her virgin innocence, was doomed to perish by that relentless power which had linked her destiny with crime and contest in which she had no part but as a sufferer. It is, alas! the property of crime to extend its mischiefs over innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessing over many that deserve them not.

Plunged in that sea of troubles, of perplexities, of agonies, and of terrors, I reflected upon all that the woman Edna had told me. It seemed inconceivable that Bulgaria's ruler should demand a.s.sistance of me--and yet it was undoubtedly true.

Presently I turned down the Haymarket, still walking slowly, deep in reflection.

Should I inform the police? Very calmly I thought it over. My first impulse was to go to Scotland Yard and make a plain statement of the whole facts, laying stress upon the suspicion against the woman Grainger as an accessory. Yet when I came to consider the result of such action I saw with dismay that my lips were sealed. Such statement could only reflect upon myself. First, I should, by going to Scotland Yard, be compelled to reveal my own ident.i.ty, which would mean my return to Denbury; secondly, I could give no account of those six lost years of my life; and, thirdly, the statement of one believed not to be exactly responsible for his actions must be regarded with but little credence.

No, circ.u.mstances themselves had conspired to hold me to silence.

I went on in blind despair towards my hotel.

Determined upon tracing Mabel and ascertaining from her own lips the reason that our engagement had been terminated, I travelled on the following day down to Bournemouth, and made inquiries at the hotel from which her letter had been dated.

After searching the books the hotel-clerk showed me certain entries from which it appeared that Mrs Anson and her daughter had arrived there on May 12, 1891, and had occupied one of the best suites of rooms until June 5, when they paid their bill and left suddenly.

I glanced at Mabel's letter. It was dated June 4. She had left on the following day. I could learn nothing further.

In an excited, unsettled state of mind, unable to decide how to act, I returned to London, and then, out of sheer want of something to do, I travelled down to Heaton. The old place was the same: neglected and deserted, but full of memories of days bygone. Old Baxter and his wife were both dead, and the caretakers were fresh servants whom my agent had apparently engaged. I also learnt that Parker, the faithful old woman who had tended to my wants in Ess.e.x Street, had also pa.s.sed away more than two years before.

I spent a dismal day wandering through the house and park, then drove back to Tewkesbury, and on the following morning returned to London. In the six years that had elapsed since my last visit to the Manor nothing had changed save, perhaps, that the gra.s.s had grown more luxuriantly over the gravelled drive, and the stone exterior was being gradually rendered grey by the lichen which in those parts overgrows everything.

The mystery of the crime, and of the singular events which had followed, formed an enigma which seemed utterly beyond solution.

My nerves were shattered. As the days went by an increasing desire possessed me to ascertain more of that woman who called herself Grainger and was the confidential emissary of a reigning prince. She alone knew the truth, therefore why should I not carefully watch her movements, and endeavour to discover her intentions? From the veiled threat she had muttered, it was evident that although she did not fear any revelations that I might make, yet she regarded me as a person detrimental to her interests. As long as I had acted as her agent in negotiating loans for the Princ.i.p.ality, she had secured for me high favour in the eyes of Prince Ferdinand. But the fact that I had gained consciousness and refused to a.s.sist her further had taken her completely by surprise.

That same evening I called at the _Bath Hotel_, and ascertained that "Mrs Grainger" had left some days before. She had not, it appeared, given any address where letters might be forwarded, but a judicious tip administered to a hall-porter caused him suddenly to recollect that a couple of days before her departure she had sent a dressing-bag to a trunk-maker's a little further down Piccadilly, to be repaired. This bag had not been returned to the hotel, therefore it was quite probable, thought the hall-porter, that the trunk-maker had forwarded it to her.

"You know the people at the trunk-maker's, of course?" I said.

"Yes, sir. Many visitors here want repairs done to their boxes and bags."

"The _Bath Hotel_ is therefore a good customer?" I remarked. "They would certainly give you her address if you asked for it."

He seemed a trifle dubious, but at my request went along to the shop, and a quarter of an hour later returned with an address.

She had not moved far, it appeared. Only to the _Midland Hotel_ at St Pancras.

Late that night I myself left the _Grand_, and, a.s.suming a name that was not my own, took a room at the _Midland_, in order to commence my observations upon her movements. It was certainly a risky business, for I knew not when I might encounter her in the vestibule, in the lift, or in the public rooms. As soon as my room was a.s.signed to me, I glanced through the list eagerly, but it was evident that if she were there she, too, had changed her name. In the long list of visitors was one, that of Mrs Slade. Slade? The name was familiar. It was that of the doctor who had given me back my sight. That name struck me as being the most probable. She occupied a room on the same floor as mine, numbered 406. The door of that room I intended to watch.

My vigilance on the morrow was rewarded, for about eleven o'clock in the morning I saw Edna emerge from the room dressed to go out. She pa.s.sed my door and descended by the stairs, while I took my hat and swiftly followed her at a safe distance from observation.

The porter called her a hansom, and I saw her neat, black-robed figure mount into the conveyance. She had a letter in her hand, and read the address to the porter, who in turn repeated it to the driver.

Meanwhile, I had entered another cab, and telling the man to keep Edna's cab in sight, we drove along King's Cross Road and Farringdon Street to the City, pa.s.sing along Gresham Street and Lothbury. Suddenly the cab I was following turned into Austin Friars, while my driver, an intelligent young fellow, pulled up at the corner of Throgmorton Street and said--

"We'd better wait here, sir, if you don't want the lady to notice us.

She's going into an office at number 14, opposite the Dutch Church."

"Get down," I said, "and try and find out whose office she's gone into,"