An Eye for an Eye Part 14

"I'm very glad we have met," I said enthusiastically, for, truth to tell, I saw in her opportune invitation a means by which I might get at the truth I sought. There was something extremely puzzling in this allegation that the calm-mannered, affable Mrs. Blain, whom I had known so well, was the actual tenant of the mysterious house in Phillimore Place. Then, looking at her steadily, I added: "In future our relations shall be, as you suggest, those of friendship, and not of affection--if you really wish."

"Of course," she replied. "It is the only sensible solution of the situation. We are both perfectly free, and there is no reason whatever why we should not remain friends--is there?"

"None at all," I said. "Tell your mother that I shall be most delighted to pay you a visit. You have a boat, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes. And a punt, too. This season I've learned to punt quite well."

I smiled.

"Because that pastime shows off the feminine figure to greatest advantage," I observed. "Girls who punt generally wear pretty brown shoes, and their dresses just a trifle short, so that as they skip from end to end of the punt they are enabled to display a discreet _soupcon of lingerie_ and open-work stocking--eh?"

"Ah, no," she protested, laughing. "You're too sarcastic. Punting is really very good fun."

"For ladies, no doubt," I said. "But men prefer sculling. They've no waists to show, nor pretty flannel frocks to exhibit to the river crowd."

"Ah, Frank, you always were a little harsh in your conclusions," she sighed. "I suppose it is because you sometimes write criticisms.

Critics, I have always imagined, should be old and quarrelsome persons-- you are not."

"No," I responded. "But old critics too often view things through their own philosophical spectacles. The younger school take a much broader view of life. I'm not, however, a critic," I added, "I'm only a journalist."

I could hear old Mrs. Joad growling to herself because the steak was ready and she could not lay the cloth because of my visitor. Meanwhile, the room had become filled to suffocation with the fumes of frizzling meat, until a blue haze seemed to hang over everything. So used was I to this choking state of things that until that moment I never noticed it. Then I quickly rose and opened the window with a word of apology that the place "smelt stuffy."

She glanced around the shabby, smoke-mellowed room, and declared that it pleased her. Of course bachelors had to shift for themselves a good deal, she said, yet this place was not at all uncomfortable. I told her of my companion who shared the chambers with me, of his genius as a journalist, and how merrily we kept house together, at which she was much interested. All girls are more or less interested in bachelors'

arrangements.

Our gossip drifted mostly into the bygones--of events at Harwell, and the movements of various mutual friends, when suddenly d.i.c.k Cleugh burst into the room crying--

"I say, old chap, there's another first-cla.s.s horror! Oh! I beg your pardon," he said in apology, drawing back on noticing Mary. "I didn't know you had a visitor; forgive me."

"Let me introduce you," I said, laughing at his sudden confusion. "Mr.

Cleugh--Miss Blain."

The pair exchanged greetings, when Cleugh, with that merry good humour that never deserted him, said--

"Ladies never come to our den, you know, Miss Blain; therefore please forgive me for blaring like a bull. Our old woman who cleans out the kennels is as deaf as a post, therefore we have contracted a habit of shouting."

"What is the horror of which you spoke?" she asked, with a forced laugh, I was looking at her at that instant and noticed how unusually pale and agitated her face had suddenly become.

"Oh, only a startling discovery in to-night's special," he answered.

"A discovery!" she gasped, "Where?"

He glanced at the paper still in his hand, while she bent forward in her chair with an eagerness impossible of concealment. Her cheeks were pallid, her eyes dark, wild-looking and brilliant.

"The affair," he said, "seems to have taken place in Loampit Vale, Lewisham."

"Ah!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, quite involuntarily giving vent to a sigh of relief which Cleugh, quick and observant, did not fail to notice.

My friend threw the paper aside, sniffed at the odour of burnt meat, and suggested that the Hag was endeavouring to asphyxiate us.

"The Hag!" exclaimed Mary, surprised. "Who's the Hag!"

"Old Mrs. Joad," responded d.i.c.k. "We call her that, first, because she's so ugly; and secondly, because when she's cooking for us she croons to herself like the Witch of Endor."

"She certainly is decidedly ugly with that cross-eye of hers. It struck me, too, that she had an ancient and witch-like aspect when she admitted me," she laughed.

Thus we chatted on until the bell on the Hall struck seven and she rose to go, first, however, inviting d.i.c.k to accompany me to Riverdene, an invitation which he gladly accepted. Then she bade him adieu and I accompanied her out into Holborn, where I placed her in a taxi for Waterloo.

On re-entering the room, d.i.c.k's first exclamation was--

"Did you notice how her face changed when I mentioned the horror?"

"Yes," I said.

"Her name's Blain, and I presume she's the daughter of Mrs. Blain who is tenant of that house in Kensington?"

I nodded.

"An old flame of yours. I remember now that you once spoke of her."

"Quite true."

"Well, old fellow," he said, "it was quite apparent when I mentioned the tragedy that she feared the discovery had been made in Kensington.

Depend upon it she can, if she likes, tell us a good deal."

"Yes," I answered thoughtfully, "I agree with you entirely, d.i.c.k. I believe she can."

CHAPTER TEN.

ON THE SILENT HIGHWAY.

Whatever might have been Mary's object in thus renewing my acquaintance at the very moment when I was about to seek her, one thing alone was apparent--she feared the revelation of the tragic affair at Kensington.

There are times when men and women, whatever mastery they may possess over their countenances, must involuntarily betray joy or fear in a manner unmistakable. Those sudden and entirely unintentional words of d.i.c.k's had, for the moment, frozen her heart. And yet it was incredible that she could have any connexion with this affair, so inexplicable that Superintendent Shaw, the chief of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, had himself visited the house, and, according to what Boyd had told me, had expressed himself utterly bewildered.

Next day pa.s.sed uneventfully, but on the following afternoon we took train to Shepperton, where at the station we found Simpson, the chauffeur who had been at Shenley, awaiting us with a smart motor-car, in which we drove along the white winding road to Riverdene.

d.i.c.k's description of the place was certainly not in the least exaggerated when he had said that it was one of the most charming old places on the Thames. Approached from the highway by a long drive through a thick belt of elms and beeches, it stood, a long, old-fashioned house, covered with honeysuckle and roses, facing the river, with a broad, well-kept lawn sloping down to the water's edge.

The gardens on either side were filled with bright flowers, the high leafy trees overshadowed the house and kept it delightfully cool, and the tent on the lawn and the several hammocks slung in the shadow testified to the ease and repose of those who lived there. Many riparian residences had I seen during my frequent picnics and Sunday excursions up and down the various reaches, but for picturesqueness, perfect quiet and rural beauty, none could compare with this. I had expected to find a mere cottage, or at most a villa, the humble retreat of a half-ruined man; yet on the contrary it was a fine house, furnished with an elegance that was surprising, with men-servants and every evidence of wealth. City men, I reflected, made money fast, and without doubt old Henry Blain had regained long ago all that he had lost.

How beautiful, how tranquil was that spot, how sweet-smelling that wealth of trailing roses which entirely hid one-half the house after the dust and stuffiness of Fleet Street, the incessant rattle of traffic, and the hoa.r.s.e shouting of "the winners." Beyond the lawn, which we now crossed to greet our hostess and her daughter, the river ran cool and deep, with its surface unruffled, so that the high poplars on the opposite bank were reflected into it with all their detail and colour as in a mirror. It was a warm afternoon, and during our drive the sun had beat down upon us mercilessly, but here in the shadow all was delightfully cool and refreshing. The porch of the house facing the river was one ma.s.s of yellow roses, which spread their fragrance everywhere.

Mrs. Blain was seated in a wicker chair with some needlework, while Mary was lying in a _chaise-longue_ reading the latest novel from Mudie's, and our footsteps falling noiselessly upon the turf, neither noticed our approach until we stood before them.

"I'm so very pleased you've come, Frank," exclaimed the elder lady, starting forward enthusiastically as she put down her work, "and I'm delighted to meet your friend. I have heard of you both several times through your father. I wonder he doesn't exchange his living with some one. He seems so very unwell of late. I've always thought that Harwell doesn't suit him."

"He has tried on several occasions, but the offers he has had are in towns in the North of England, so he prefers Berkshire," I answered.

"Well," she said, inviting us both to be seated in comfortable wicker chairs standing near, "it is really very pleasant to see you again.