Chapter Sixteen. In the City.

Through several days I remained in bed, my limbs rigid, my senses bewildered.

Although we said nothing to Tweedie, Cleugh entirely shared my suspicion that if an attempt had actually been made upon my life it had been made at Riverdene. The doctor ran in several times each day, and Dick, assisted by old Mrs Joad, was as attentive to my wants as any trained nurse, snatching all the time he could spare from his duties to sit by me and gossip of men and things in Fleet Street, and the latest “scoop” of the Comet.

Tweedie was puzzled. Each time he saw me he remarked upon my curious symptoms, carefully noting them and expressing wonder as to the exact nature of the deleterious substance. He pronounced the opinion that it was some alkaloid, for such it was shown by the reagents he had used in his analysis, but of what nature he was utterly at a loss to determine. Many were the questions he put to me as to what I had eaten on that day, and I explained how I had lunched at one of the restaurants in Fleet Street, and afterwards dined with friends at Laleham.

“You ate no sandwiches, or anything of that kind at station refreshment bars?” he asked, when he visited me one morning, in the vague idea, I suppose, that the poison might, after all, be a ptomaine.

“None,” I answered. “With the exception of what I told you, I had a glass of wine at the house of a friend at Hampton before rowing up to Laleham.”

“A glass of wine,” he repeated slowly, as if reflecting. “You noticed no peculiar taste in it? What was it—port?”

“Yes,” I replied. “An excellent wine it was, without any taste unusual.”

For the first time the recollection of that glass of wine given me by Eva at The Hollies came back to me. Surely she could not have deliberately given me a fatal draught?

“Often,” he said, “a substance which is poison to one person is harmless to another. If we could only discover what it really was which affected you, we might treat you for it and cure you much more rapidly. As matters rest, however, you must grow strong again by degrees, and thank Providence that you’re still alive. I confess when I first saw you, I thought you’d only a few minutes to live.”

“Was I so very bad?”

“As ill as you could be. You were cold and rigid, and looked as though you were already dead. In fact, any one but a doctor would, I believe, have pronounced life extinct. Your breath on a mirror alone showed respiration, although the heart’s movement was so weak as to be practically imperceptible. But don’t trouble further over it, you’ll be about soon,” and shortly afterwards he shook my hand and went on his way to the hospital, already late on my account.

I longed to tell him all the curious events of the past, but saw that such a course would be unwise. If I did so, Eva—the woman I adored—must be prematurely judged, first because of old Lowry’s revelations, and now secondly because of the suspicious fact of my illness after partaking of the wine she offered.

The idea that the attempt had been made upon me at Riverdene seemed very improbable, because I had dined in common with the other guests; the tea I had taken was poured from the same Queen Anne pot from which the cups of others were filled, and in the whisky-and-soda I had had before leaving I was joined by three other men who had rowed up from a house-boat about a quarter of a mile lower down.

As I lay there restless in my bed, trying vainly to read, I spent hours in recalling every event of that day, but could discover no suspicious circumstance other than that incident of the wine at The Hollies. I recollected how Eva after ringing for the servant and ordering it, had herself gone out into the dining-room, and had been absent a couple of minutes or so. Possibly she might only have gone there in order to unlock the cellarette, yet there were likewise, of course, other graver possibilities.

This thought which fastened upon my mind so tenaciously allowed me but little rest. I tried to rid myself of it, tried to scorn such an idea, tried to reason with myself how plain it was that she actually held me in some esteem, and if so she would certainly not seek to take my life in that cowardly, dastardly manner. Sometimes I felt that I misjudged her; at others grave suspicions haunted me. Yet withal my love for her never once wavered. She was my idol. Through those long, weary hours of prostration and convalescence I thought always of her—always.

I had written her a short note, saying that I was unwell and unable to go down to Riverdene, not, however, mentioning the cause of my illness, and in response there came in return a charmingly-worded little letter, expressing profound regret and hoping we should meet again very soon. A hundred times I read that note.

Was the thin, delicate hand that penned it the same that had endeavoured to take my life?

That was the sole question uppermost in my mind; a problem which racked my brain day by day, nay, hour by hour. But there was no solution. Thus was I compelled to exist in torturing suspicion, anxiety and uncertainty.

One hot afternoon I had risen for the first time, and was sitting among pillows in the armchair reading some magazines which Dick had thoughtfully brought me during the luncheon hour, when a timid knock sounded at the door. The Hag had left me to attend upon her other “young gentlemen” in the Temple, and I was alone. Therefore I rose and answered the summons, finding to my surprise that my visitor was Lily Lowry.

At once, at my invitation, she entered, a slim figure dressed in neat, if cheap, black, without any attempt at being fashionable, but with that primness and severity expected of lady’s-maids and shop-assistants. Her gloves were neat, her hat suited her well, and beneath her veil I saw a pretty face, pale, interesting and anxious-looking.

“I didn’t expect to find any one in, except Mrs Joad,” she said apologetically, as she took the chair I offered. Then, noticing my pillows, and perhaps the paleness of my countenance, she asked. “What? You are surely not ill, Mr Urwin?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve been rather queer for a week past. The heat, or something of that sort, I suppose. Nothing at all serious.”

“I’m so glad of that,” she said. “I only called because I was passing. I’ve been matching some silk at the wholesale houses in the City, and as I wanted to give Mr Cleugh a message I thought I’d leave it with Mrs Joad.”

“A message?” I repeated. “Can I give it?”

She hesitated, and I saw that a slight blush suffused her cheeks.

“No,” she faltered. “You’re very kind, but perhaps, after all, it would be better to write to him.”

“As you like,” I said, smiling. “You don’t, of course, care to trust your secrets in my keeping—eh?”

She looked at me seriously for a moment, her lips quivered, and she drew a long breath.

“You’ve always been extremely kind,” she said in a low voice, half-choked with emotion. “And now that I find you alone, I feel impelled to confide in you and seek your advice.”

“I’m quite ready to offer any advice I can,” I answered, quickly interested. “If I can render you any assistance I will certainly do so with pleasure.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, sighing again, “I knew you would. I am in trouble—in such terrible trouble.”

“What has happened?” I inquired quickly, for I saw how white and wan she was, and of course attributed it to Dick’s action in renouncing his pledge.

“You, of course, know that Mr Cleugh and I have parted,” she said, looking up at me quickly.

“He has told me so,” I responded gravely. “I regret very much to hear it. What is the reason?”

“Has he not told you?” she asked, her eyes filled with tears.

“No,” I answered. “He gave no reason.”

“Well,” she explained, “he has judged me wrongly. I am entirely innocent, I assure you. In a place of business like ours we are compelled to be on friendly terms with the male assistants, and the other evening, as I was leaving the shop to go to the house where we girls live, at the other end of Rye Lane, one of the men—an insufferable young fellow in the hosiery department—chanced to be going the same way and walked with me.

“On the way, Dick—Mr Cleugh, I mean—passed us, and now he declares that I’ve been in the habit of flirting with these men. It is not pleasant for any girl to walk alone along Rye Lane at ten o’clock at night, therefore this young fellow was only escorting me out of politeness. Yet I cannot make Dick believe otherwise than that he is my lover.”

“He’s jealous of you,” I said. “Is not jealousy an index of true love?”

“But if he loved me truly,” she protested, bursting into tears, “he surely would not treat me so cruelly as this. I’ve done nothing to warrant this denunciation as a worthless flirt—indeed, I haven’t.”

“And you love him?” I asked with deep sympathy, for I saw how intense was her suffering.

“He knows that I do,” she answered. “He could see but little of me because his work prevented him, yet I was supremely happy in the knowledge of his love. Yet now he has forsaken me,” she added, sobbing. “I’m but a poor girl, and I suppose if the truth were known he admires some one else better educated and more attractive than I am.”

“No, I think not,” I said, although at heart I felt that she spoke the truth. “This is merely a lover’s quarrel, and you’ll quickly make it up again. Look at the brighter side of things—come.”

But she shook her head gloomily, saying—

“Never. I feel confident that Dick will never come back to me, although—although I shall love him always,” and she raised her veil to wipe the hot tears from her cheeks.

“No, no,” I exclaimed, endeavouring to comfort her, “don’t meet trouble half-way. That’s one of the secrets of happiness. We all of us have our little spasms of grief and despair sometimes, you know.”

“Ah! yes, of course,” she cried quickly. “But this sorrow has, alas! not come alone. Still another misfortune has fallen upon me.”

“What’s that?” I inquired, surprised.

“My father!” she exclaimed huskily.

“And what of him?” I asked. “I called upon him a short time ago. Surely nothing has happened to him?”

“Well,” she replied, “it occurred like this. I got permission this day week to leave business at five o’clock, and, as usual, went home. When, however, I arrived at the shop I found it shut, and to my amazement a bailiff was in possession.”

“For debt?” I inquired.

“Yes. He showed me some papers, and said it would cost about four hundred pounds to settle both bill and costs of the court.”

“And your father? What was his explanation?” I asked, greatly interested and surprised.

“He wasn’t there,” she responded. “That’s the curious part about the whole affair. I made inquiries, and discovered that he had suddenly shut up the shop about noon three days before, and had gone off with a heavy trunk placed on a four-wheeled cab.”

“Does no one know where he’s gone?”

“Nobody,” she answered excitedly. “It’s so strange that he has not written me a single line in explanation. I can’t understand it.”

I paused for a few moments, deeply puzzled.

“From the fact that the bailiff was in possession it would appear that he had preferred flight to facing his creditors,” I said slowly. “Were you aware that he was in debt?”

“Not in the least,” she answered. “He has some property abroad, you know.”

“Where?”

“In France, I think. He never spoke of it to any one, although I knew that the rent was remitted regularly by a draft on the Crédit Lyonnais in Pall Mall. I used to go there with him to receive the money. It was quite a pile of banknotes each quarter.”

“Then he could not really have been so badly off as he appeared?” I observed.

“No. He was eccentric, and very miserly, and although he always had enough and to spare he used constantly to deplore our poverty. I took a situation merely to satisfy him, as he had so often expressed regret that I should be idling at home. There was, however, absolutely no real necessity.”

“But surely,” I said, “he has not intentionally left you alone in the world? He will write very soon. Perhaps just now he does not write for fear his whereabouts should become known. He’s evidently escaped his creditors. Has he been speculating, do you think?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Can’t you think of any reason why he should have fled so precipitately?” I asked, at the same time reflecting that it might be due to the fact that he had aroused the suspicions of the police by the illegal sale of drugs.

“No,” she answered. “None whatever, beyond what I’ve already explained. His flight is an entire mystery, and it was to seek the advice of Dick, as my closest friend, that I called here. How had I best act, do you think?”

“I really don’t know,” I replied, after some reflection. “His disappearance is certainly remarkable, but if he is in hiding, it is not at all strange that he should omit to write to you. He knows your address, therefore, when he deems it safe in his own interests to communicate with you and explain, he will do so, no doubt.”

“Then I’m to wait in patience and see our home sold up?” she asked, tears again welling in her dark, luminous eyes.

“You can do nothing else,” I said. “He evidently means that it should be sold, for he has made no attempt to rescue it.”

“There are so many of my poor mother’s things there. I should so like to keep them—her little trinkets and such trifles. It seems very hard that they should be sold to a second-hand dealer.”

“That’s so, but you have no means of rescuing them,” I pointed out. “It is certainly very hard indeed for you to be left alone and friendless like this, but without doubt your father has some reason in acting thus.”

“He’s fled like some common thief,” she cried, with a choking sob. “And now I haven’t a single friend.”

“I am your friend,” I said, echoing her sigh. “You have my sympathy, Lily, and if I can render you any service I shall always be ready to do so.”

She thanked me warmly in a voice choked by sobs, for the two great sorrows had fallen upon her, and she was overwhelmed and broken.

I promised I would speak to Dick, and if possible arrange a meeting between them, in order to try and effect a reconciliation. Inwardly, however, I knew that this was quite impossible, for he had really grown tired of her, and had more than once in the past few days openly congratulated himself upon his freedom. She remained a short time longer, and before she left had become more composed and was in better spirits.

Then, when she shook my hand to go forth, she said—

“I thank you so much for all your kind words, Mr Urwin. I have at least to-day found a real friend.”

“I hope so,” I laughed. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye; I hope you’ll soon be about again.”

Then the door closed and I was again alone.

I was heartily sorry for her, poor girl. The sudden flight of the old herbalist was, to say the least suspicious. That he had money and could pay the debt was certain. Without doubt he had disappeared on account of a too close attention from the police. Morris Lowry was, I knew, not very remarkable for paternal affection, therefore I feared that he had, as Lily suspected, left her at the mercy of the world.

A week later I was able to go down to my office again, and about six o’clock on the second day I had resumed my duties I accidentally met Boyd at the bottom of Fleet Street.

As merry as usual, we drank together at the Bodega beneath the railway arch in Ludgate Hill, but in reply to my eager questions he told me that absolutely nothing fresh had transpired regarding the curious affair at Kensington. I explained that I was still a frequent visitor at Riverdene, but up to the present had discovered nothing. I, of course, did not tell him all my suspicions, preferring to keep my own counsel and allow him to prosecute his inquiries after his own method. From his conversation, however, I saw that he had many other matters in hand, and from his attitude it seemed as though he had given up hope of obtaining a clue to the mystery.

On finishing our wine we rose from the barrel on which we had been sitting, and he having announced his intention to walk along to the bookstall in Ludgate Hill Station to buy a magazine for his wife—for he was just off home by motor-bus to Hammersmith—we strolled together through that short arcade leading to the station, at that hour crowded by hungry City men eager to get back to their suburban homes.

Into every door they surged, springing up the two staircases to the platform above as though they had not a further moment to live, while every few seconds the deep voices of the ticket-collectors cried the names of the stations from the City to Blackheath or Victoria, or from Herne Hill down to Dover. Amid this black-coated, silk-hatted, perspiring crowd a man suddenly brushed past me, rushing up the stairs two steps at a time, slipping through the barrier just as the door was slammed, and disappearing on to the platform.

“Hulloa!” cried Boyd, pressing my arm quickly. “See! Look at that man—the one with the bag, running up the steps. Do you see him?”

“Yes,” I answered, myself confounded.

“Well, that’s the fellow I saw in St. James’s Park, and who got away so neatly from Ebury Street—you remember?”

“That man!” I gasped, utterly amazed.

“Yes. We mustn’t lose sight of him this time. He can tell us something if he likes,” and without further word he dashed away after the man who had hurried to catch his train, leaving me standing alone in amazement.

That man who had brushed past I had instantly recognised as none other than Henry Blain, who for so many weeks was supposed to have been in Paris.

This fresh development was certainly both startling and mysterious.