The Wiles of the Wicked. William Le Queux
you hold back from me the chance to escape from this slow but inevitable fate unless I conform to your wishes?”
“I do.”
“Such action as yours cannot inspire confidence.”
“I am impelled by circumstances beyond my own control,” she answered, with a momentary touch of sadness. “If you knew the truth you certainly would not hesitate.”
“Will you not tell me your name?”
“No. It is useless.”
“At least, you can so far confide in me as to tell me your Christian name,” I said.
“Edna.”
“And you refuse your surname?”
“I do so under compulsion.”
The water had by this time risen rapidly. My legs had become benumbed, for it now reached nearly to my knees.
“Why do you longer hesitate?” she went on. “Give me your word that you will render the assistance I require, and we will at once escape. Let us lose no time. All this seems strange to you, I know; but some day, when you learn the real reason, you will thank me rather than think ill of my present actions.”
Her determination was, I saw plainly, the outcome of some terror which held her fettered, and I knew that, in order to save myself, I must give her the promise she had so persistently desired to extract from me.
Therefore, with sudden determination, prompted by the natural, instinct of self-preservation than by any desire to assist her, I gave her my bond of secrecy.
Again she sighed deeply, as though released of some oppressive weight by my words. Then our hands clasped in mutual trust, and without further word she led me to the opposite side of the noisome cellar into which my enemies had cast me.
“You shall never regret this decision,” she assured me in a strained voice, trembling with emotion—“never, never!”
And with a sudden movement she raised my hand and touched it lightly with her dry, fevered lips.
Chapter Six.
Hand and Heart.
This impulsive action of hers was as though she were deeply indebted to me. I stood motionless in wonderment.
But only for an instant. She left my side for a moment, and from the sound that escaped her lips appeared to be struggling to open some means of egress from the place.
“Remain where you are,” she said, “and I will return to you in a moment. The way out is rather difficult, and I shall be compelled to assist you.” Her voice sounded above me, as though she had somehow climbed to the roof of the place.
I heard the drawing of a bolt and the clang of iron; then she climbed down again to where I anxiously awaited her. The river flood had risen alarmingly, and was still entering rapidly.
“Come, let me guide you,” she said, taking my arm and leading me to the wall. “Lift your foot, so!” and taking my foot, she placed it in a kind of narrow step in the rough stone wall, at the same time placing my hand upon a piece of iron that seemed to be a large nail driven into the masonry. “Now climb very carefully,” she went on.
Without hesitation, I raised myself from the ground slowly, and with infinite care commenced to scale the wall, while she remained below, wading almost up to her waist in water.
“Take care that you don’t strike your head,” she cried warningly. “Above you is a small hole just large enough for you to get through. Be very careful, and take your time.”
The one hand at liberty I stretched above my head, and found, as she described, a square hole in the roof of the place, and, grasping the stone, I eventually managed to escape through it, finding myself at last standing upon a boarded floor.
A few moments later she was again at my side, and by the clang of iron I knew that the aperture of that fatal place was closed again.
I inquired of her where we were, but she only replied—
“I’ve already explained to you that to seek to elucidate the mystery of these adventures of yours is entirely useless. We have promised to each other mutual faith. That is, in itself, sufficient.”
Then, taking my arm, she hurriedly led me across the room, up some steps, and along two long passages that ran at right angles to each other, until at length we emerged into the street.
Where we were I had not the slightest idea. I only knew that we were beside the river bank, for upon my ears there fell the shrill whistle of a steam-tug.
With her arm linked in mine, and heedless of the water dripping from her skirts, she led me forward through a number of narrow turnings, until by the bustle about me I knew that we must have reached a main road.
I heard the approaching hoot of a taxi, and the vehicle, at her demand, pulled up at the kerb.
“We must now part,” she said, in a low, earnest voice. “Remember that in this remarkable affair our interests are absolutely identical. Any order that you receive you will obey without seeking to discover the why or wherefore, and above all, silence to the police.”
“I have promised,” I answered.
“And whatever may occur in the future, recollect that I am still your protectress, as I have been to-day. I have forced you to your promise, but for that I ask your forgiveness, because it is essential, if the mystery is ever to be solved.”
“Are you, too, seeking the truth?”
“Yes,” she responded. “But we must not talk here. The condition of our clothes is attracting attention.”
“I shall think always of the mysterious Edna who refuses all information,” I laughed.
“And I, too, shall not easily forget you—and all I owe to you. Farewell.”
Her soft hand grasped mine for an instant, that same cool hand that had soothed my brow. Afterwards she assisted me into the cab.
“Good-bye,” she cried. Then she became lost to me.
I told the driver where to go, and sat back in the vehicle, plunged in my own thoughts. I was like a man in a dream. The mystery was most tantalising. Feeling weak, I stopped at a public-house and had some brandy. Indeed, I felt so unwell that I sat in the bar-parlour fully half an hour before resuming my drive.
Suddenly I recollected that I might gather something from the driver, and I inquired where he had taken me up.
“In Albert Road, Battersea, sir.”
This surprised me, for I had no idea that I had been on the Surrey side of the river.
I explained to the man my blindness, and asked him to describe the lady who had put me into this cab.
“Well, sir,” he said, “she was very pretty indeed, with grey eyes and darkish hair.”
“She was good-looking—eh?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a much prettier young lady.”
I sighed. How tantalising it was that my poor sightless eyes had been unable to gaze upon her.
“Describe her more closely,” I urged. “I’m anxious to know exactly what she’s like.”
“She had lovely eyes, sir. Her hair seemed a bit untidy, but it was a pretty shade of dark-brown. Her face seemed innocent-looking, like a child’s. I was surprised to see her like that.”
“Like