CHAPTER TWENTY.

CONTAINS ANOTHER SURPRISE.

For some twenty minutes or so I watched her, undecided whether she were actually the representative of the mysterious Nello, or whether she was merely a shop-girl in the vicinity who expected to meet a friend.

Time after time, although she was ignorant of the constant observation I kept upon her, I managed to get close sight of her, and after a time began to doubt whether she really was a shop a.s.sistant. Her black coat and skirt was of some cheap but effective material, and the boa about her neck was of the type usually worn by the employees of Westbourne Grove; yet once as she pa.s.sed, my eyes caught a gleam beneath the sleeve of her coat, and I saw that she wore, only half-concealed, one of those curious New Zealand bracelets of pale green stone which are so shaped upon the wrist that they can never be removed. Solid and circular, it was a strange, almost barbarous-looking ornament and yet very striking, for in one part was a small band of gold, wherein was set a single diamond, the gleam of which had attracted my attention.

Now if she were a shop a.s.sistant, I argued, she could not sell ribbons and laces with such an ornament upon her wrist. No employer would allow such personal adornment. And as she could not remove it there was doubt that she really was what she appeared to be.

It commenced to rain and she put up her umbrella. It was old, and in it were several slits.

I was in half a mind to raise my hat, wish her good-evening, and inquire if she were there in response to the advertis.e.m.e.nt addressed to Nello, yet on reflection I saw that such a movement would be very indiscreet, and that if she were really there as Nello's representative then I could gain more by watching her. So, unnoticed, I stood within the station, my back turned to her, and my head buried in an evening paper. To her I was, I suppose, only an ordinary working-man, and if I had approached her she would have at once snubbed me.

Fortunately I so constantly changed my position that she never gave me a look, and was entirely unconscious of being watched. Greater part of the time I stood apart some distance, on the opposite side of the street at the corner of York Place.

From the eager way in which she watched every female approaching, I knew that she was waiting for a woman.

At last she became convinced that her vigil was in vain. The rain had ceased, she closed her umbrella and entered an omnibus which had pulled up before the station, and an instant afterwards moved on towards the Edgware Road.

It pa.s.sed close to where I was standing on the kerb, and a few moments afterwards I was in a hansom following it at a respectable distance, my head again hidden in a newspaper. Down Edgware Road, past the Marble Arch and along Park Lane we went to Victoria Station, where the dark-eyed girl alighted, and entering the Chatham and Dover terminus pa.s.sed through the barrier with the return half of a first-cla.s.s ticket.

Without reflection I went to the booking-office, obtained a third for Loughborough Junction, a station through which most trains pa.s.sed, and five minutes later was seated in a compartment near her. If she had really responded to my invitation, then it was my duty to discover her destination and learn something concerning her.

For half an hour I sat in the train looking out at every stopping-place, but seeing nothing of her.

At last, at a half-lit suburban station she descended and hurried out.

I followed quickly, handing the collector a two-shilling piece as excess fare.

I glanced at the name on the station lamp. It was Lordship Lane.

Outside was the foot of Sydenham Hill.

I allowed her to get on well in front and then followed her along the silent ill-lit suburban road for half a mile up the steep hill, flanked on either side by large detached houses. For some reason best known to herself she had not gone on to the next station, Upper Sydenham.

Perhaps she was too well known there.

Half-way up the hill I walked more quickly and gained upon her, so that I saw into which gateway she went.

She disappeared through the gate of the house called Keymer--the house of the mysterious John Parham!

Then I was, of course, convinced that she had kept the appointment on behalf of the unknown Nello.

I had not called upon Mrs Parham since that tragic incident which I had witnessed from the pavement, and longed now to follow the dark-eyed girl and learn the reason of her presence at Baker Street. But a visit at that hour was entirely out of the question. Besides, my disguise as a working-man would arouse suspicion.

Therefore I was compelled to retrace my steps, return to my hotel in Adelphi Terrace, and send a line to Budd, ordering him to bring me a hat and a decent suit of clothes in a kitbag.

Eric's complete silence now alarmed me. How did Tibbie know that he was in Paris? Surely she possessed some means of communication with certain persons of which I was in entire ignorance. There might be other advertis.e.m.e.nts in other journals which I had not seen--by pre-arrangement in some obscure country journal possibly.

Jack and Lord Wydcombe were now anxious regarding the absence of both of us from London, and must, of course, regard our silence as curious. Yet so far as I could gather they never for one moment connected my absence with Tibbie's disappearance. Tibbie they regarded as erratic and utterly uncontrollable, just as she had ever been from the time she was expelled from her school at Versailles for defying the princ.i.p.al, and causing the other pupils to revolt over some fancied grievance.

Next day about twelve, risking recognition by any person who might know me, I a.s.sumed my frock coat, silk hat and gloves and visited Keymer.

Mrs Parham was in the drawing-room, arranging some flowers in a vase, and turned to me quickly when I was announced.

"Forgive me for calling, madam, but you will, of course, recollect me,"

I said. "I was in this neighbourhood and thought I would pay my respects and ascertain how you were."

"Ah! of course," she exclaimed. "I remember you perfectly--on that night--that night when they came here," she faltered, rather tamely, I thought, and she motioned me to a chair and seated herself.

"The poor girl has, of course, been buried," I said. "I saw accounts of the inquest in the papers."

"Yes. They brought in a verdict of murder, but up to the present the police have discovered nothing, it appears. Ah!" she sighed. "They are so very slow. It's monstrous that such a thing could happen here, in the centre of a populated district. Out in the lonely country it would be quite another thing. I should have left the house at once, only I feared that my husband would be annoyed. He is abroad, you know."

"And have you had no word from him?"

"Not a line. I'm expecting a letter from India by every mail. He is in India, I know, as he told one of his City friends that he was going. He sailed on the _Caledonia_ from Ma.r.s.eilles nearly five weeks ago. He may have written me from Paris and the letter miscarried. That's the only explanation I can think of."

I recollected that I had never given her a card, therefore she very fortunately did not know my name, and I did not intend that she should, if concealment were at all possible.

There was a mystery about that house and its occupants which caused me to act with circ.u.mspection.

I looked around the room. Nothing had been altered save that the couch upon which they had laid the dead girl was now gone, and the corner of the carpet which had been torn up had been re-nailed down. The piano at which my hostess had sat when attacked was still in its place, and the table whereon had stood the photograph which I had stolen still contained that same silver and _bric-a-brac_.

As Mrs Parham was speaking the door suddenly opened, and the dark-eyed young girl whom I had watched on the previous night came gaily into the room. The instant I saw her I recognised that she was a lady. In a clean, fresh cotton blouse and neat tailor-made skirt she presented a much smarter appearance them in that cheap black coat and skirt as she stood in the muddy roadway. The green stone bracelet was still upon her wrist, the one object which alone had showed me that she was no shop a.s.sistant.

"This is Miss O'Hara," my hostess exclaimed, introducing us; "she has kindly come to stay with me until my husband's return."

And as we bowed to each other I saw that the newcomer had no previous knowledge of me.

"I was present at the unfortunate affair," I said. "Mrs Parham must have been very upset by it."

"She was," declared the girl, in a quiet, refined voice. "But she's getting over it now. The worst shock was the maid's death. It was a most dastardly piece of business, and moreover, no one knows with what motive it was done."

"To get possession of something which Mr Parham had concealed here," I said.

"That may be, but as far as Mrs Parham is aware they took nothing beyond a few of her husband's private papers."

"Nothing except a photograph that stood on the table over there,"

remarked my hostess.

"A photograph!" I exclaimed, in pretended surprise. "Of whom?"

"Of a friend," was the vague response, and I saw that the two women looked at each other meaningly.

They intended to keep the ident.i.ty of the original of the stolen portrait a secret. Yet they were in utter ignorance that it was in my possession.

Why had this Miss O'Hara gone to meet Sybil in Nello's place? I wondered.

I chatted with them both for a long time, but without being able to discover any additional fact. They were both clever women, and knew how to hold their tongues.