The Wiles of the Wicked Part 14

I returned into the hall, and my host helped me into my overcoat.

We were alone, for I had made my adieux to his wife and daughters.

"Wilford," he said very gravely, as he gripped my hand prior to my departure, "we are old friends. Will you permit me to say one word without taking offence at it?"

"Certainly," I answered, surprised. "What is it?"

"I've noticed to-night that, like many another man, you are entranced by the beauty of Mabel Anson. Be careful not to make a fool of yourself."

"I don't understand," I said quickly.

"Well, all I would say is, that if you desire happiness and peace of mind, steel your heart against her," he answered with a distinct air of mystery.

"You speak in enigmas."

"I merely give you a timely warning, that's all, my dear fellow. Now, don't be offended, but go home and think it over, and resolve never again to see her--never, you understand--never."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE FOURTEENTH OF OCTOBER.

Long and deeply I pondered over the Colonel's words. That he had some underlying motive in thus warning me against the woman by whom I had become so fascinated was vividly apparent, yet to all my demands he remained dumb. On the afternoon following I found him in the St James's Club--that club of diplomatists--and reverted to the subject.

But all the response he vouchsafed was--

"I've merely warned you, my dear fellow. I shall say no more. I, of course, don't blame you for admiring her, I only tell you to pull yourself up short."

"But why?"

"Because if you go further than admiration you'll be treading dangerous ground--devilish dangerous, I can a.s.sure you."

"You mean that she has a jealous lover?" I suggested.

"She has no lover, as far as I'm aware," he answered.

"Then, speaking candidly, Channing," I said, "I don't see why you should turn prophet like this without giving me any reason."

"My reason is briefly told," he said with unusual gravity. "I don't wish to see you upset and unhappy, now that you've recovered your sight."

His words seemed very lame ones.

"Why should I be unhappy?"

"Because Mabel Anson can never be more to you than an acquaintance; she can never reciprocate your love. I tell you plainly that if you allow yourself to become entranced and all that sort of thing, you'll only make a confounded a.s.s of yourself."

"You certainly speak very plainly," I observed, annoyed that he should interfere so prematurely in a matter which was a.s.suredly my affair alone.

"I speak because I have your welfare at heart, Wilford," he answered in a kindly tone. "I only regret now that I asked you to my table to meet her. It is my fault--entirely my fault."

"You talk as though she were some genius of evil," I laughed. "Let me act as I think fit, my dear Channing."

"Let you go headlong to the devil, eh?" he snapped.

"But to love her is not to go on the downward path, surely?" I cried incredulously.

"I warn you, once and for all, to have nothing whatever to do with her,"

he said. "I know her--you do not."

But I laughed him to scorn. His words seemed utterly absurd, as though his mind were filled by some strong prejudice which he dared not to utter for fear of laying himself open to an action for slander. If her acquaintance were so extremely undesirable, why did he invite her and her mother to his table? His words were not borne out by his own actions.

So I bade him farewell rather coolly, and left the club abruptly, in anger with myself at having sought him, or bestowed a single thought upon his extraordinary warning.

In the days that followed my mind was fully engrossed by recollections of her charm and beauty. Like every other man, I had had, before my blindness, one or two minor affairs of the heart, but never before had I experienced the grand pa.s.sion. I had, indeed, admired several other women of various ages and various stations, but none had ever approached in grace, beauty, or refinement the woman who had so suddenly come into my life, and so quickly gone out of it.

Yes, I openly confess that I, who had of later years determined to remain a bachelor, was deeply in love with her. Indeed, for the time, I actually forgot the grim shadow of evil which had in my blindness fallen upon me.

Hither and thither in the great world of London I went with my eyes ever open in eagerness to catch a glimpse of her. I lounged in the Row at the fas.h.i.+onable hour; went to the opera, and swept boxes and stalls with my gla.s.ses; and strolled about Regent Street, Oxford Street, and High Street, Kensington, in the vicinity of those great drapery emporiums so dear alike to the feminine heart and to the male pocket. For ten days or so I spent greater part of my time in searching for her slim, erect figure among the bustling London crowds. I knew her address, it was true, but my acquaintance was not sufficient to warrant a call, therefore I was compelled to seek a chance encounter.

All, however, was in vain. I had firmly resolved to take no heed of the Colonel's extraordinary premonition, and laughed at his dehortatory suggestions; for I meant at all costs to meet her again. One day I suddenly recollected that in conversation Mrs Anson had mentioned that her daughter was a student at the Royal Academy of Music. If so, then she would undoubtedly go there alone on certain days to take her lessons. By carefully watching I might, I thought, meet her as if by accident. So I at once set to work to make inquiries, and discovered through tipping one of the hall-porters of the inst.i.tution that Miss Anson came there every Tuesday and Friday at two o'clock in the afternoon. The next day chanced to be Tuesday, therefore I went to Hanover Square and waited for her at the corner of Tenterden Street. As I watched I saw quite a number of smart-looking lady students pa.s.s into the inst.i.tution, but, although I remained on the alert for nearly two hours, she did not come, and at length I was compelled to return home wearied, unsuccessful, and dispirited.

That night, however, a blow fell upon me. An incident which I had constantly dreaded occurred, for by the last post was delivered one of those strange typewritten mandates from the unknown. The envelope was a blue-grey one, such as lawyers use, and the postmark showed that it had been dispatched from the Lombard Street office, in the City. I tore it open in fear and trepidation, and glanced at the few even lines it contained. The lines I read were signed by the word "Avel," traced with a heavy hand in rough Roman capitals, and were as follows:--

"To-morrow, the fourteenth of October, enter the Park at Grosvenor Gate at four o'clock, and wait at the third seat on the path which leads to the band-stand."

I stood silent, with the mysterious missive in my hand. Some secret service was evidently required of me. The shadow of that fateful night had again fallen, crus.h.i.+ng me beneath its weight of mystery and crime.

I thought of the unknown Edna, and pictured her in comparison with Mabel. In my helplessness I had become an unwilling tool in the hands of the former, and now I hated and despised her. This galling servitude which she had imposed upon me under penalty of death was doubly irksome now that I loved; yet so mysterious and tragic were all the circ.u.mstances that I feared to break the bond that I had given.

In ordinary circ.u.mstances I think I should have been eager to obey this sudden demand to go to the Park on the following day. There was a distinct air of adventure in the appointment, and, eager to fathom the mystery surrounding Edna, I saw that this meeting might furnish me with some clue. But I recollected Mabel, all sweetness and purity, and hated it all. Edna had declared that she herself was not the mysterious "Avel," yet I had no reason to disbelieve her statement. To me it seemed as though she were acting under instructions which had for their object the preservation of the secret of the midnight crime.

Who was the young man who had fallen victim? His ident.i.ty puzzled me always, until the problem had become so perplexing as to drive me to despair. Although time after time I had searched the newspapers, I had found no one answering to his description mentioned as missing. He had evidently been done to death and his body disposed of without a single inquiry, while the crime had been concealed with an ingenuity which appalled me. Might I, myself, not fall victim in a similar manner if I refused to obey these strange mandates of an unknown hand?

These thoughts were the reverse of rea.s.suring, for even if I went to the police they would be unable to a.s.sist me. A detective might keep the appointment in the Park, but it was certain on seeing a stranger in the vicinity the person who intended to meet me would give him a very wide berth.

That hot night I lay awake through many hours calmly reviewing the whole situation. On the last occasion when I had obeyed the order of my mysterious correspondent--sent undoubtedly at Edna's instigation--I had profited considerably. Was the present order for good or for evil?

Naturally, I had always been fond of adventure, for I came of a family of sailors. But the gruesome incidents of that single night when I had wandered alone in London had utterly unnerved me. I had become so surrounded by mystery that each effort of mine to elucidate it caused me to sink deeper and deeper into the complex quagmire of uncertainty.

Perhaps Edna herself desired to speak with me, now that I could see.

This suggestion took possession of me, and next morning I was anxious and interested in the appointment. Soon after three I took an omnibus from the Strand to the corner of Park Lane, and on the stroke of four entered the Park at Grosvenor Gate and glanced eagerly around. No one was in the vicinity save one or two loungers of the "unemployed" type and two or three nursemaids with children. Without difficulty I soon found the seat indicated, and sat down to wait. It was a pleasant spot beneath a large chestnut tree, quiet and more secluded than any of the others. Evidently my correspondent knew the Park well.

I lit a cigarette and possessed myself in patience. After some five minutes or so a female figure entered the gate and approached in my direction. It was that of an elderly woman of rather common type, and as she came straight towards me I waited her with some curiosity, but she pa.s.sed me by without a look, and continued on her way. Then I knew that she was not the person who intended to meet me, and laughed within myself.

My position was one of curiosity, sitting there prepared to meet some person unknown. We have all of us, at one time or another, sat awaiting persons we have never before seen, and we have invariably found mental pictures of their appearance utterly different from their real aspect.

It was so with me at that moment. I sat waiting and wondering for half an hour or so, watching narrowly all who chanced to approach, until I began to suspect that for some reason or other the appointment would not be kept.

A glance at my watch showed it to be already twenty minutes to five. My patience was exhausted, and I felt annoyed that I should be thus brought here on a purposeless errand. Of one man who had pa.s.sed, a dark-faced, ill-dressed lounger, I had had my suspicions. He had idled past, feigning to take no notice of my presence, yet I saw that he was covertly watching me. Perhaps he had been sent to see whether I had come there alone. I waited and waited, but in vain.

The shadows had lengthened, the sun was sinking behind the trees in Kensington Gardens, and at length I cast away the end of my last remaining cigarette and rose to depart. Perhaps some untoward incident had occurred, and I should receive a further communication from my unknown correspondent. I had, at least, carried out my part of the compact, and was therefore free. So I took my stick and set forth towards Grosvenor Gate at a brisk pace, for I was tired of waiting, and my limbs were cramped by my long and fruitless vigil.

I had almost reached the gate leading out to Park Lane when of a sudden, at a sharp bend of the path, a dark figure loomed up before me.