Chapter 20: A Journey to Nowhere

It was between three and four o’clock in the afternoon. Already the lamps were lighted. The fog still hung over the city. From the appearance of things it might have been night.

“To her!” I said to myself. I called a cab. “To Hailsham Road—the Boltons!”

I examined my possessions. Time pressed. Return to Imperial Mansions was out of the question. Of what crime I had been guilty I did not know; that there would be a disposition to make me smart for it I felt persuaded. I have lived in places where, as much as possible, a man carries his valuables upon his person, for safety. The habit has clung to me a little. As a rule I carry more money than, I believe, the average Englishman is apt to do. I had in my letter-case over £100 in notes, in my pockets nearly £20 in sovereigns; a sufficiency for my immediate requirements. It was enough to take two people out of reach of the storm.

As we entered Hailsham Road I saw that a man was standing at the corner. Turning, as we passed, he closely scrutinised both the cab and me. The maidservant answered my knock. Miss Moore was in—Miss Adair out. Miss Moore was better, thank you. She would inquire if I could see her.

She showed me into the sitting-room. A bright fire was blazing. The apartment was redolent of a particular aroma, perceived of my imagination, perhaps, rather than my senses. It was an aroma I loved. I had never seen a room I liked so much. While I was considering that it might turn out unfortunately for the gentleman at the corner, should he show too pertinacious an interest in my movements, she came. With a little flutter, and a little laugh—the sound of which was good—she held out both her hands.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. If you’d been much longer, I should have come to you. Where have you been?”

“For some part of last night I was out in the street, watching your window.”

“Out in the street! But—why didn’t you come in?”

“It was too late to pay a call. Besides—I did make inquiries, and they told me you were in bed, and ill.”

“I was not very well. I believe I was light-headed. But I’m better now; my own proper self—not the person you have known.”

“Indeed.”

“And—I know.” She drew back a little, looking down at her foot, which peeped out from under the hem of her gown, as if it were a curious thing—which it was, for beauty. “I know all that you did for me, how good you were.”

“Then you know nothing.”

She looked up at me with a sudden flashing in her eyes.

“I know all. I know that I didn’t do it. Aren’t you glad?”

“I never supposed you had a finger in the matter.”

“That is strange. Appearances were all against me; you knew not what I was, or anything at all. I came into your room in—in a most disreputable way, with an impotent tale—which was none at all. My cloak was wet with blood. You have it now.”

“I had it.”

“You must have suspected me of at least some sort of hand in it; it would have been only natural.”

“To me it seems that it would have been most unnatural.”

“That’s odd. I believe I’m suspected by all sorts of people; by some of the very worst. And you never doubted me at all?” She breathed a little quickly as if she sighed. “I am glad. So long as you know that it was not a murderess who came through your window like a thief, I do not seem to care what others think, which is absurd. For I had no hand in it, nor had you; nor had Mr. Lawrence’s brother.”

“But—who then?”

“That, as yet, I can’t quite see. There was something strange about it; something like a conjuring trick, which I am not sure that I understood, even at the time. It was all done by some dreadful creature, the mere horror of whose presence drove me from my senses. I can’t think what it can have been.”

When, stopping, she stood before me, with shining eyes; her lips parted with a smile, so as to show the small white teeth within, I was at a loss how to enter on the subject of my errand. So, as usual, I blundered.

“Unfortunately, men are mostly fools, and blind.”