The Wiles of the Wicked. William Le Queux
which were my home. Nothing seemed disarranged, nothing missing—only the woman who had ever been so faithful to me and had treated me as tenderly in my helplessness as though I had been her own son.
In impatience I took a cigar, lit it, and sat down to wait. No doubt, when she returned I should find that she had been absent upon some errand connected with her not-over-extensive cuisine. The thought grew upon me that my promise to the mysterious Edna, whoever she might be, was a rashly foolish one, and must result in some very serious contretemps for me. I had willingly given up my liberty of action and become the instrument of a person who had, without doubt, imposed upon me. It seemed most probable, now that I reflected, that she was acting in concert with the man who had so cleverly practised deception upon me and led me to believe that he was a police-constable. That man, it now seemed plain, had followed me from the house of mystery, allowed me to wander sufficiently far to lose my bearings, and then got on in front of me so that I might approach and accost him. The whole affair had been carried out with amazing ingenuity, and every precaution had apparently been taken to conceal the remarkable tragedy. Yet the chief feature of the affair which puzzled me was the motive in endeavouring to take my life in that cellar beside the Thames. I had surely harmed no one, and, being utterly ignorant of the house wherein the affair had taken place, and also knowing me to be blind, they certainly could not fear any revelations that I might make. It was an enigma which I strove in vain to solve.
My gloomy thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a latch-key in the outer door, and as I rose old Mrs. Parker entered with an expression of profound surprise.
“Why, sir?” she cried. “I understood that you’d gone away into the country!”
“Into the country?” I echoed. “Who told you so?”
“The lady you sent to tell me.”
“Lady? What lady?” I inquired, amazed. “Surely, Parker, you’ve taken leave of your senses?”
“The lady came about an hour ago, sir, and said that you had sent her to tell me that you would be absent for perhaps a week or so—that you had gone down to your uncle’s in Hampshire.”
“I’ve sent no one,” I responded, astounded at this fresh phase of the affair. “What kind of lady was she—old or young?”
“Middle-aged.”
“Well-dressed?”
“Yes, sir. She spoke with a funny kind of lisp, which made me think she might be a foreigner. She said she knew you quite well, being a friend of your aunt’s, and that you were travelling down to Hampshire this morning, your uncle having been taken ill. I remarked that it was strange that you shouldn’t come home for your bag and things, but she gave me a message from you to send a bag packed with your clothes by train from Waterloo to Christchurch Station marked ‘To be called for.’ ”
“But didn’t you think her story a very lame one, Parker?” I asked, angry that my old serving-woman should have thus been misled and deceived.
“Of course I did, sir, especially as you were absent all night. I told her that, and she said that you had called upon her, and finding your aunt, Lady Durrant, there on a visit, remained to supper. While at supper a telegram had arrived summoning your aunt home, as your uncle had been taken dangerously ill, and at once you had resolved to accompany her. But you’ve hurt your head, sir, haven’t you?” she added, noticing my bandages.
“Yes,” I answered. “I fell down. It is nothing—my own carelessness.”
The story was, to say the least, a most ingenious one. Whoever the mysterious woman was she apparently knew that my uncle, Sir Charles Durrant, lived in the neighbourhood of Christchurch; that he was at that moment in a very critical state of health, suffering from paralysis, and further, that I had considerable expectations from him, and would not hesitate to travel down to see him if I knew him to be worse. One thing, therefore, was quite plain, namely, that my family affairs were perfectly well known to these persons whose movements were so mystifying.
“It was foolish of you, Parker, very foolish indeed, to have given credence to such an absurd tale as that,” I said, annoyed. “You are usually a shrewd woman, but you have displayed no discretion in this affair—none whatever.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” the woman answered. “But I knew that if Sir Charles were worse you’d go down to the Manor at once. Did you really send nobody, sir?”
“No; nobody at all. There’s some underhand business in all this, Parker, so keep your wits about you.”
“And haven’t you seen her ladyship at all, sir?” she inquired, in her turn astonished.
“No, and, moreover, I know nothing of this mysterious woman who came to you with this cock-and-bull story. Did she say where she lived, or give any card?”
“No, she didn’t, sir.”
“I suppose you’d know her again if you saw her?”
“Well,” she answered with considerable hesitancy, “I don’t know as I should, sir. You see, she wore one of them white lace veils which makes it difficult to distinguish the features.”
“But what object could any one have in coming to you and telling a falsehood in that manner?” I cried, my anger increased by the knowledge of Parker’s inability to again recognise the bearer of the false message.
“I don’t know, I’m sure, sir,” was the woman’s reply, in a voice which showed how deeply she regretted the occurrence.
“How long was she here?” I inquired.
“About five minutes. She asked me to let her see your sitting-room and the reading-books with the embossed letters, as she was much interested in you, and had heard so much of you from Lady Durrant.”
“And you showed them to her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you had no right to do so without my permission, Parker,” I said angrily. “You are an old and trusted servant, and should have known better.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. The truth was that she seemed such a well-spoken lady, and her manner was so perfect that I thought you would not like to offend her.”
“Recollect that if any other persons call they are not to enter my rooms on any pretext,” I said decisively.
“Very well, sir. I acknowledge that I was entirely in the wrong in allowing her to pry about the place.”
“And when she had gone?”
“Then I went over to the butcher’s in the Strand to get a bit of steak.”
“And saw nothing more of her?”
“Yes, sir. I did see her again. As I was coming back I met her in the Strand, at the corner of Arundel Street, walking with a gentleman who looked like a City man. She said something to him, and he turned and had a good look at me.”
“Then it must have been this same woman who was in my chambers here when I returned,” I said.
“A woman here?” she ejaculated.
“Yes; when I entered there was a woman here, and she escaped as though she were a thief. She must have gone out and rejoined the man, who was awaiting her somewhere in the vicinity. That would bear out the fact that you encountered her again.”
“But how could she get in? I’m always careful to see that the door is properly closed.”
“Probably she stole the extra latch-key while prying about the place. See whether it is still on the nail.” She crossed the room, and next moment gasped—“It’s gone, sir!”
“Ah!” I said. “Just as I thought! The story she told you was a mere excuse to obtain admittance to the place, and, if possible, to get possession of the key. This she obtained,