An Eye for an Eye Part 29

"No, he certainly wasn't. I arrived home first, and he came in perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour later than usual," I answered, wondering what connexion this could have with the inquiry.

"And after you made the discovery you did not telegraph or communicate with him in any way? I take it that you were surprised to meet him in that house."

"Certainly I was," I responded. "But he had an appointment with Lily Lowry, and finding that she could not keep it, he came along to Kensington to ascertain the nature of the event about which Patterson had wired to me."

The detective's features relaxed into a strange smile.

"Would you be surprised then to know that your friend never called at the Police-Station on that evening, but went straight to Phillimore Place and there joined me while you were absent inquiring of the neighbours? That very evening I inquired of the constable on duty at the door of the station, and of others, all of whom told me that no one had called to inquire for Patterson except yourself."

"That's certainly extraordinary," I said in wonderment.

"Yes," he observed mechanically. "It's a very curious fact; one which appears to prove that he knew something more of the mysterious occurrence than he has admitted--in fact, that he was aware of it long before we were."

"What!" I gasped, gazing at my companion in alarm. "Surely you don't mean that you suspect d.i.c.k of having had any hand in the affair?"

Then, at that instant, I recollected how, when I had received the telegram on that memorable evening, his face had suddenly changed, and his hand had trembled.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"YOU WILL NEVER KNOW--NEVER!"

d.i.c.k returned about eleven, and shortly afterwards Boyd swallowed another whisky-and-soda and left.

I thought my friend started slightly at finding the detective with me, but he betrayed not the slightest annoyance. Indeed, he himself started the discussion regarding the mystery, appearing in no way loth to discuss it in all its phases.

The detective's suspicion was certainly a startling one, and of course accounted for his anxiety that d.i.c.k should in future remain in utter ignorance of our actions. When Boyd had gone he at once commenced to question me upon what theories he had expressed, and in what direction he was prosecuting inquiries. Although I would not allow myself to suspect my best friend, I nevertheless preserved the silence which Boyd had imposed upon me, evading giving him direct answers, preserving the secret of the ident.i.ty of the man seen in St. James's Park, and managing to put aside his questions by a declaration that personally I was sick of the whole matter, for I felt that it would now ever remain a mystery.

That night, however, I remained awake many hours thinking fondly of Eva, and calmly revolving in my mind all that had fallen from the lips of Boyd. He, one of the most skilful officers in London, had formed no theory. He only entertained certain suspicions, vague perhaps, yet by no means groundless. I had not seen Eva since that day when the strange, incomprehensible attempt had been made to take my life, and a strong desire again possessed me to stroll at her side, to hear her voice, to hold her hand. Was it, I wondered time after time, that hand, so soft, slim and delicate, that had actually attempted to secretly take my life?

The detective had calmly reviewed all the facts I had explained, and, as a professional investigator of crime, had openly expressed a suspicion in the affirmative.

Often had I wondered what kind of woman was Eva's mother, whom I had never met. That she was somewhat eccentric was evident from her daughter's words on the last occasion I had visited Riverdene. I lay there thinking of Eva, scouting every suspicion which the detective's words had aroused within me, until with the first streak of dawn I fell asleep and dreamed of her.

Next afternoon, without mentioning anything to d.i.c.k save the sending of a telegram to say I should not dine at home, I left my office half an hour earlier, and full of conflicting thoughts travelled down to Riverdene.

Having been informed by the servant that Mrs. Blain and Miss Mary were absent in London shopping, but that Miss Glaslyn was at home, I was shown into the long, pleasant drawing-room which opened upon the wide lawn sloping to the river's brink. The great bowls of cut flowers diffused a pleasant odour, and the books and papers lying in the cosy-corner, with its soft cushions of pale-blue silk, betrayed signs of recent occupation.

It was a low-ceilinged, comfortable apartment, cool and restful after the dust and glare of the white road outside.

In a few moments the door opened and Eva entered, fresh and charming in a cool dress of cream flannel, her sweet face illumined by a smile of glad welcome.

"This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Urwin!" she exclaimed, rushing towards me gladly with outstretched hand. "I had no idea that you'd come down to-day. The Blains are up in town, you know. I should have gone, only I had a rather bad headache. We went up to Windsor yesterday with the Thurleys on their launch, and I suppose the sun upset me. It was unbearably hot."

"Why do you persist in calling me Mr. Urwin?" I asked in a rather reproachful tone, still retaining possession of her hand. "Cannot you call me Frank?"

She blushed slightly, and drew her hand forcibly away. Then motioning me to a seat she cast herself into a low armchair near me, stretching forth her tiny foot, neat in its silk stocking and patent leather shoe.

She made no response to my suggestion, so I repeated it.

"Why should I call you by your Christian name?" she asked.

"Because I call you by yours, Eva," I answered earnestly. "I really can't bear this persistent formality."

She smiled, a rather curious smile it was, I thought.

"So you're staying as guest here?" I went on, after a moment's pause.

"Yes," she explained. "My Uncle Henry, in Inverness, is very ill and not expected to live; therefore they summoned mother by telegraph, with other members of the family. As the servants have had no holiday this year, she sent them away for a fortnight and closed the house, Mrs.

Blain having invited me here."

"Have you heard from your mother?"

"Yes, I had a wire yesterday to say that she had arrived, safely," she answered, not, however, without a second's hesitation, as though she were debating whether or no to tell me the truth.

"And Mr. Blain has not returned from Paris yet?" I asked.

"No," she responded. "The Blains are talking of joining him next week, or perhaps the week after, and have invited me to accompany them. I should be delighted, for I love Paris."

"You find the shops interesting?" I laughed.

"Yes," she answered. "All women do, I suppose. At least I've met very few who, having been in Paris, haven't hunted for bargains at the Louvre, the Printemps, or the Bon Marche. Paris is worth visiting if only for one's hats, for you can often buy a hat for twenty francs exactly the same style and of better material than that for which you pay three or four guineas in Regent Street."

"I'm not much of an expert in such things," I laughed, nevertheless recollecting how curious it was that Blain remained still in London.

Might not his wife and daughter have gone up that day to visit him in his hiding-place?

"But you've been awfully queer, I hear," she said concernedly. "You really don't look quite yourself even now. What has been the matter?

We were all so concerned when we heard about it."

Our eyes met. In hers there was a deep, earnest look as though she were really solicitous of my welfare, yet I fancied somehow that those clear blue eyes wavered beneath my steady, searching glance. She watched me, reading me as easily as she would have read black letters on a white page.

"I was taken suddenly ill--the heat perhaps," I answered with affected carelessness. "I had run down, the doctor said. It was nothing very serious." She gave vent to a perceptible sigh of relief, then smiling sweetly as she ever did, said: "Well, it is indeed a pleasure to welcome you here again to-day." She still wore that brooch, the quaint little playing-card which had betrayed her visit to Morris Lowry. Its sight sent a strange thrill through me, for I remembered the object of her visit to that dark, dirty, obscure herbalist's.

"The pleasure is mutual, believe me, Eva," I answered, putting away from me instantly the gruesome thought oppressing me. "Through this whole month I have thought only of you."

She sighed, in an instant serious. Then glancing back to a.s.sure herself that there were no eavesdroppers, she said, "It would be far better, Mr.

Urwin--Frank--if you could leave me and forget."

"But I can't," I said, rising quickly and again taking her soft white hand. "You know, Eva, how deeply, how sincerely, how devotedly I love you; how I am entirely yours for ever."

I spoke simply and directly what I felt; I was calmer than I had been when I rowed her beneath the willows' shade.

"Ah, no!" she cried in a pained voice, rising to her feet with sudden resolution. "You really must not say this. I will not let you sacrifice yourself. I will not allow you to thus--"

"It is no sacrifice," I protested, quickly interrupting. "I love you, Eva, with all my soul. One woman alone in all the world holds me beneath the spell of her grace, her charm and her sweetness. It is yourself. Every hour I think only of you; ever before me your face rises in my day-dreams, and in those moments when I see your sweet smiles I tell myself that no other woman can ever have a place in my heart. Ah! you cannot know how fondly I love you," I said, raising the hand tenderly to my lips and imprinting a kiss upon it. "If you could only know you would never treat me with this cold, calm indifference."

Her bosom rose and fell slowly, and she was silent. I fancied that she shuddered slightly.

At that moment my position struck me as an extremely strange one, declaring love to one whom an expert detective suspected of having made a cowardly attempt upon my life. Was it just? I asked myself. Yes, in this I was justified, for I loved her, even though I had more than once been inclined to agree with Boyd in his misgivings.

"I was not aware of any indifference," she faltered at last, raising her great eyes, so clear and earnest, for an instant to mine. "I had merely urged you to reflect."