Chapter Twenty Two. In Defiance of the Law.

The discovery of the horror concealed within that closed room opened out an entirely fresh development of the mystery. On discussing it with Boyd after we had stealthily left the house we were in complete agreement that the dead man must have either been in hiding there, or else, being an imbecile, had been kept under restraint. The fact of the door being barred on the outside strengthened Boyd’s belief in the latter theory, while I made the suggestion that he might have been imprisoned and died of starvation.

“No,” Boyd answered, “I don’t agree with you there, for it is quite plain that Lady Glaslyn must have been aware of his presence, and perhaps, indeed, arranged the room. There is every evidence that he was supplied with food at intervals, and cooked it himself, which shows that, even if an invalid, he was sufficiently active. My idea is that he may have been some relation whose demented condition her ladyship wished to keep from her friends and other members of the family, and that having died suddenly she was compelled to lock and seal the door, dreading the publicity of a coroner’s inquiry, when the truth must have been made public.”

“True,” I said. “That’s, of course, a very feasible theory. But if she were in the secret, Eva, too, must have known.”

“Of course,” he said. “She can tell us everything if she chooses. It’s a pity that the dead man’s face is unrecognisable.”

“Again, is it not strange that we should have found in there one of those same cards?”

“Yes, rather,” responded my friend. “But at present it is useless to advance all kinds of wild theories. We must stick closely to facts if we would succeed. We have to-night made certain discoveries, startling enough in all conscience, and among them have elucidated the secret which Lady Glaslyn has hidden from every one. Now we must seek to discover the motive which caused her to apply that seal to the door, as well as ascertaining the reason her daughter has that mysterious drug among her possessions, together with the photographs of the two unknown victims.”

“I wonder how long it is since the man died in that room,” I said. “What a horrible existence he must have led shut up there, gaining all his light and air through a broken pane of glass. He was studious, at any rate, judging from the character of the books with which he had been supplied.”

“And a linguist too,” Boyd remarked, remembering that the books were in other languages besides English.

“Strange that the curiosity of the servants was not aroused,” I said. “They would be certain to wonder what was in a room sealed up as that is.”

“To satisfy them would be easy enough,” the detective answered. “Her ladyship undoubtedly told them that certain family heirlooms, old furniture, or something, was stowed away there, and that the seal had been placed upon them by the trustees, or somebody. Trust a woman for an excuse,” and he smiled grimly.

We walked on together for some time in complete silence. The young day grew wider and brighter and redder in the sky. We had passed through Twickenham, and now, in the dawn, were making our way towards Richmond, whence we could catch the early workmen’s train to Waterloo.

“You must keep your friend Cleugh in entire ignorance of all this. Tell him you’ve been out to visit some friends, say at Ealing or Uxbridge, or somewhere, and that they compelled you to stay the night. If he were to know, the whole result of our investigations might be rendered abortive.”

“Of course I’ll do as you wish,” I answered. “But I can’t for the life of me see why you entertain any suspicion of Dick. He’s been all along eager and ready to assist me to clear up the mystery. To publish the details of the curious affair seems his one object.” Boyd smiled again with veiled sarcasm.

“And a very interesting story he’ll have for publication, it appears to me,” he said, laughing. Then he added after a second’s pause, “One of the oddest facts in the whole affair is that the pair we found dead in Phillimore Place have never been missed by their friends.”

“Or the dead man at The Hollies, for the matter of that,” I added.

“Yes,” he said in dubious tone. “There are yet some facts which we must learn ere we can piece the queer puzzle together and read the whole. Only then can we discover who was the man whom Lady Glaslyn has so carefully hidden. It’s a devilish funny business, to say the least.”

“Has it occurred to you that she may have left not intending to return?” I asked.

“Well, no,” he responded. “I scarcely think she has flown, or her daughter would have secured the contents of her escritoire. She evidently believes her secret quite safe, and is therefore entirely fearless.” The Richmond Road with its many trees was pleasant in that hour when the clear rose-flush of dawn was still in the sky, and as we walked the cool wind rose fragrant with the smell of the wet grass, refreshing after the foetid atmosphere of that closed room and its gruesome occupant.

We chatted on, discussing the startling discoveries we had made, he giving me certain instructions, until we got to the station and entered a compartment. The latter being crowded with workmen, further conversation on the subject was precluded.

Soon after six I returned to Gray’s Inn, and making an excuse to Dick for my absence, snatched an hour’s sleep before going down to my office. My heart was hard; my blood fire. Fate had been merciless.

“I began to think something had happened, old chap,” Dick had said when I had entered his room and awakened him. He sat up in bed and looked at me rather strangely, I thought. Then he added: “You don’t seem as though you’ve had much sleep, wherever you’ve been.”

In my excitement I had quite forgotten that my clothes were dirty and torn, and my face unwashed, and I fancied that his pointed remark caused a slight flush to rise to my cheeks.

How I performed my duties that morning I scarcely knew, for my brain was in a whirl with the amazing discoveries of the past night, I loved Eva, yet the contents of those concealed drawers were sufficient in themselves to convince Boyd of her guilt. A fearful and perpetual dread seized me lest she should be arrested. Boyd’s method of work was, I knew, always bold and decisive. A detective, to be successful, must act without hesitation. In this affair he had obtained evidence which, from every point of view, proved but one fact, and one alone—her guilt. Indeed, I now remembered with bitterness how she had to me openly declared herself guilty; how she had prophesied that one day I should hate all mention of her name. Did it not seem quite clear, too, that this very drug which I had found in the small wooden box, the drug which had been instantly fatal to the poor brute upon which we tried it, was the same which had been administered to me by her hand?

When I thought of that I felt glad that I had assisted my friend of Scotland Yard, and that with my own hands had unearthed evidence which must lead to her conviction. Her arrest was, I knew from my friend’s remarks, only a matter of days, perhaps, indeed, of hours.

“You can’t now seek to shield Miss Glaslyn,” he had remarked when we had been waiting for the train on Richmond platform. “The proofs are far too strong. If we could only discover the author of those type-written letters we would be able to find out what the Silence refers to, and to move with much more certainty. As we can’t, we must fix our theory firmly and act boldly upon it.”

“Do you mean that you intend to apply for a warrant against her?” I inquired, dismayed.

“We shall obtain one against somebody, but who it may be of course depends entirely upon the result of our subsequent investigations. People don’t keep bodies locked up in their houses without some very strong motive.”

It now struck me as exceedingly strange why Eva should have been so anxious to prevent me revisiting Riverdene. She had hinted that the Blains were my enemies, yet was it not more likely that my presence reminded her too vividly of her sin, and she also feared the vengeance of Mary Blain? There was undoubtedly some deep motive underlying this effort to prevent me visiting the Blains, but as I reflected upon it I failed to decide what it might be. She had spoken of it as though it were for my benefit, and as if she had my welfare at heart, yet I could not fail to detect how hollow was the sham, for the Blains were my friends of long standing, and since my visit at Mary’s request my welcome had always been a most cordial one.

Mary had certainly no cause for jealousy, for she and I had on several occasions, when alone on the river, spoken of the past. She had, indeed, ridiculed my boyish love for her, and observed that we were both older and more discreet nowadays. I had long been assured by her words and her attitude that her affection for me—if she had really ever entertained any—had entirely passed away.

No, I could not understand Eva’s present attitude. It was entirely an enigma. She seemed filled with some nameless terror, the reason of which our discoveries seemed to prove up to the hilt.

Day followed day, each to me full of anxiety and bewilderment. On parting from Boyd he had told me to remain in patience until he communicated with me. I was not to return to Riverdene, neither was I to mention a single word to Dick regarding recent occurrences.

I wandered from end to end of London day after day, reporting the events which daily crop up in the Metropolis. It seemed to me as if those days would never end. I saw nothing but the face of Eva. The world which had seemed to me so beautiful had changed; Heaven was cruel. It created loveliness only to pollute and deform it afterwards. Out of my dreams I was brought face to face with facts that sickened me. The old landmarks of my faith were gone. Whatever happy hopefulness of nature I possessed was crushed. I was bewildered and sick at heart. Yet through it all I could not thrust away from me Eva’s wondrous beauty. Her form, her gaze, her smile, her sigh—I could think of nothing else. Yet the mockery of it all stung me to despair, and despair is man’s most frequent visitor.

A week thus passed. I saw her in the air, in the clouds, everywhere; her voice rang in my ears; she was so lovely—and yet she was so vile—a poisoner!

One afternoon I had returned to Gray’s Inn unusually early, about three o’clock, put on my old lounge-coat, a river “blazer,” and sat down to write up an interview for publication next day, when I heard a ring at the door, voices outside the room, and a few moments later Mrs Joad entered, saying—“’Ere’s a lady wants to see you, sir.”

“A lady?” I exclaimed, turning quickly in my chair. “Ask her in.”

I rose, brushing down my hair with my hand, and next moment found myself face to face with Eva.

She advanced with her hand outstretched and a smile upon her face, that countenance that was ever before me in my day-dreams.

“How fortunate I am to find you in,” she exclaimed, half breathless after the ascent of the stairs. “I’ve been to your office, and they told me that you were probably at home.”

“It is I who am fortunate,” I answered, laughing gaily, placing the armchair for her and drawing out a little oaken footstool, a relic from some bygone generation of men who had tenanted those grimy old rooms.

With a sigh she seated herself, and then for the first time I noticed the deathly pallor of her cheeks. Even her thick veil did not conceal it. She was in black, neat as usual, but her skirt was unbrushed and dusty, and her hair was just a trifle awry, as though she had been travelling about some hours.

“I have called upon you here for the first and for the last time,” she said in a broken voice, looking seriously across to me, as the unwonted tears sprang into her eyes.

“The last time!” I echoed. “What do you mean?”

“I have come to wish you farewell,” she said in a low, faltering voice. “I am leaving London. My mother and I are going abroad.”

“Abroad? Where?” I cried, dismayed.

“My mother’s health is not good, and the doctor has ordered her to the South immediately. He says that she must never return to this climate, because it will hasten her malady to a fatal termination. Therefore, in future we must be exiles.” She was looking straight into my face as she spoke, and those great wondrous eyes of hers that I had believed to be so pure and honest never wavered. “I leave to-morrow and join her,” she added.

“Then she has already gone!” I exclaimed, the truth at once flashing upon me that Lady Glaslyn had actually fled.

“Yes. The doctor has so frightened her that I could not induce her to stay and pack. I shall join her in Paris,” she explained quite calmly. “There is no help for it. We must part.”

“But surely,” I said in desperation, “you will not leave me thus? You will return to England sometimes.”

“I really don’t know,” she answered in a strained, hoarse voice.

“At least you will give me hope that some day you will be my wife, Eva,” I said, tenderly grasping her hand, which seemed limp and trembling. “You know how fondly I love you, how—”

I started quickly and turned, puzzled at the unusual sound of voices, without finishing the sentence. One voice I recognised speaking in deep tones to Mrs Joad, and dropping the hand I held I rushed out, closing the door behind me.

As I did so, I came face to face with Boyd, accompanied by two plain-clothes officers.

“We’ve followed her here,” he explained. “She means to get away abroad, therefore we must now execute the warrant. I regret it, for your sake.”

A loud piercing shriek from within told me that she had overheard those fateful words.

“No,” I cried. “By Heaven! you shan’t arrest her!” and I resolutely barred his passage to the inner room. “As I love her you shall never enter there! She shall never be taken as a common criminal!”