"And you are sufficiently well acquainted with me to know that I never run unnecessary risks."

"I know you to be a devilishly clever woman," he said. "But in your dealings with that man Heaton you showed weakness--a coward's weakness.

All that he knows is through your own folly. You attempted to mislead him by your actions and letters, but he has, it seems, been a little too shrewd for you."

"And if he does know the truth--even, indeed, if he dared to inform the police--what direct evidence can he give, pray?" she queried. "He was blind, and therefore saw nothing. He is now mad, and n.o.body will believe him."

"Even though he may be an idiot his mouth is better closed," her companion growled.

His words startled me. This unseen man's intention was apparently to make a further attempt upon my life. But I chuckled within myself.

Forewarned is forearmed.

Just at that moment I heard the waiter tap at the door, and opening it, announce the arrival of another visitor--a Mr Roesch.

"Why, I wonder, has he sought you here?" exclaimed the man when the waiter had gone. "He must have some important news!"

Next moment the door was again thrown open, and the new arrival entered.

All three spoke quickly together in a foreign tongue. The man Roesch then made a brief statement, which apparently held his two companions for some moments speechless in alarm. Then again they all commenced talking in low confidential tones in that strange language--Slav I believe it was.

Whatever it might have been, and although I understood no word of it, it brought back vividly to my memory the indelible recollection of the night of the tragedy at The Boltons.

I listened attentively. Yes, there was no mistake--those tones were familiar. That trio of voices were the same that with my sharpened ears I had overheard conversing in the inner room immediately before the commission of the crime.

I have said that my nerves were shattered. All the past was a torturing memory to me, but the quintessence of that torture was my failure to discover my love. I believed that she alone could supply the solution of the enigma, and what truth there was in that suspicion you shall duly see.

The three voices continued to speak in that foreign tongue for perhaps half an hour, during which period I was unable to form any idea of the trend of the new-comer's announcement.

Then I heard the visitors taking their leave, apparently with many of those gesticulated rea.s.surances of respect which mark the shallow foreigner. I extinguished my light and opened my door cautiously. As they pa.s.sed on their way down the corridor I succeeded in obtaining a very good view of the interesting pair. They were talking together, and I distinguished the man who had first called upon Edna by his deep voice. He was a short, thick-set, black-bearded man of forty, well-dressed in black, with a heavy gold albert across his ample vest.

His companion, whose name was apparently Roesch, was considerably older, about fifty-five or so, of spare build, erect, thin-faced, with long grey whiskers descending from either cheek, and shaven chin. He wore a frock-coat and silk hat, and was of a type altogether superior to his companion.

The woman Grainger's coffee was brought to her as usual in the morning, but about ten o'clock she rang again, and when the chambermaid responded, said--

"Here are two letters. Post them for me in the box in the bureau, and tell them to send my bill at once. I leave at ten forty-five."

"Yes'm." And the girl departed to post the letters.

To whom, I wondered, were those letters addressed? Within my mind I strove to devise some plan whereby I could obtain a glance at the addresses. The box, however, was only at the foot of the stairs, therefore ere I could resolve upon any plan the girl had dropped them into it, and I heard her linen flounces beating along the corridor again. Those letters were in the post, and beyond my reach.

She had written those two missives during the night, and after the departure of her visitors. They had, no doubt, some connexion with the matter which the trio had so earnestly discussed in that tantalising foreign tongue.

In hesitancy I remained some little time, then a sudden thought occurred to me. I addressed an envelope to the hall-porter of my club, enclosing a blank sheet of paper, and then descending, posted it. The box was placed outside the bureau, and the instant I had dropped the letter in I turned, as though in anger with myself, and, entering the bureau, said to the clerk--

"I've unfortunately posted a letter without a stamp. Have you the key of the box?"

"The box belongs to the Post Office, sir," he answered. "But we have a key to it."

"Then I should esteem it a favour if you would recover my letter for me.

It is most important that the addressee should not be charged for its postage. I regret that my absent-mindedness should give you this trouble."

The clerk took the key from a drawer at the end of the bureau, and opening the box, took out the half-dozen or so letters which it contained, and spread them upon the desk. Among them were two square, pale-faced envelopes. As I took my own letter and affixed a stamp I glanced eagerly at the address of both.

One bore the superscription: "Mr P. Gechkuloff, 98, King Henry's Road, Hampstead, N.W."

Upon the other were words which caused my heart to leap joyfully within me. They were--

"Miss Mabel Anson, _Langham Hotel_, London."

I posted my letter, hurried upstairs and paid my bill. Edna had already packed her trunk, but had changed her mind, and did not intend leaving Hull that day. I heard her inform the chambermaid of her intention of remaining, then I left the hotel, and caught the ten-forty-five express for London.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE ENIGMA.

At five o'clock that same afternoon I alighted from a taxi before the _Langham Hotel_, and presenting my card at the bureau, inquired for Miss Anson. The clerk looked at me rather curiously, I thought, glanced at the card, and entering the telephone-box, spoke some words into the instrument.

I was shown into a small room on the first floor, where I waited until a gentlemanly, middle-aged, fair-headed man entered, with my card in his hand.

"Good afternoon," he said, greeting me rather stiffly. "Her Highness is at present out driving. Is there anything I can do? I am her secretary."

"Her Highness?" I echoed, with a smile. "There must be some mistake.

I have called to see Miss Mabel Anson."

He regarded me with some surprise.

"Are you, then, unaware that Anson is the name adopted by Her Highness to preserve her _incognita_?" he asked, glancing at me in quick suspicion. "Are you not aware of her real rank and station?"

"No!" I cried, in blank amazement. "This is indeed a revelation to me!

I have known Miss Anson intimately during the past six years. What is her true rank?"

"The lady whom you know as Miss Anson is Her Imperial Highness the Archd.u.c.h.ess Marie Elizabeth Mabel, third daughter of His Majesty the Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria."

"Mabel! The daughter of an Emperor?" I gasped involuntarily.

"Impossible!"

He shrugged his shoulders. He was a foreigner, although he spoke English well--an Austrian most probably.

"You are surprised," he laughed. "Many people have also been surprised, as the Archd.u.c.h.ess, living in England nearly her whole life, has frequently been taken for an Englishwoman."

"I can't believe it!" I cried. "Surely there must be some mistake!"

I remembered those days of long ago when we had wandered together in Kensington Gardens. How charming and ingenuous she was: how sweet and unaffected by worldly vanities, how trustful was that look when she gazed into my eyes! Her air was never that of the daughter of the reigning House of Hapsbourg-Lorraine. She had possessed all the enchantment of ideal grace without the dignity of rank, and it seemed incredible that she was actually a princess whose home was the most brilliant Court of Europe.

"I can quite understand your surprise," observed the secretary. "But what is the nature of your business with Her Highness?"

"It is of a purely private nature."

He glanced at the card. "The Archd.u.c.h.ess does not receive callers," he answered coldly.