“Who is that?” she cried.
There was no reply for a little time; then the voice said:
“I am awfully sorry to have frightened you, Eunice.”
It was Jim Steele.
“Jim!” she gasped incredulously, and then a wave of anger swept over her. So it had been Jim all the time and not a woman! Jim, who had been supporting his prejudices by these contemptible tricks. Her anger was unreasonable, but it was very real and born of the shock of disillusionment. She remembered in a flash how sympathetic Jim had been when she told him of the midnight visitor and how he had pretended to be puzzled. So he was fooling her all the time. It was hateful of him!
“I think you had better go,” she said coldly.
“Let me explain, Eunice.”
“I don’t think any explanation is necessary,” she said. “Really, Jim, it is despicable of you.”
She went back to her room with a wildly beating heart. She could have wept for vexation. Jim! He was the mysterious Blue Hand, she thought indignantly, and he had made a laughing-stock of her! Probably he was the writer of the letters, too, and had been in her room that night. She stamped her foot in her anger. She hated him for deceiving her. She hated him for shattering the idol she had set up in her heart. She had never felt so unutterably miserable as she was when she flung herself on her bed and wept until she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
“Damn!” muttered Jim as he slipped out of the house and strode in search of his muddy little car. An unprofitable evening had ended tragically.
“Bungling, heavy-footed jackass,” he growled savagely, as he spun perilously round a corner and nearly into a taxi-cab which had ventured to the wrong side of the road. But he was not cursing the cab-driver. It was his own stupidity which had led him to test the key which had made a remarkable appearance on his table the night before. He had gone on to the balcony, merely to examine the fastenings of the girl’s window, with the idea of judging her security.
He felt miserable and would have been glad to talk his trouble over with somebody. But there was nobody he could think of, nobody whom he liked well enough, unless it was—Mrs. Fane. He half smiled at the thought and wondered what that invalid lady would think of him if he knocked her up at this hour to pour his woes into her sympathetic ears! The sweet, sad-faced woman had made a very deep impression upon him; he was surprised to find how often she came into his thoughts.
Halfway up Baker Street he brought his car to a walking pace and turned. He had remembered Selengers, and it had just occurred to him that at this hour he was more likely to profit by a visit than by a daytime call. It was nearly two o’clock when he stopped in Brade Street and descended.
He remembered the janitor had told him that there was a side entrance, which was used alone by Selengers. He found the narrow court which led to the back of the building, and after a little search discovered what was evidently the door which would bring him through the courtyard to the back of Brade Street Buildings. He tried the door, and to his surprise it was unlocked. Hearing the soft pad of the policeman’s feet in the street, and not wishing to be discovered trying strange doors at that hour, he passed through and closed it behind him, waiting till the officer had passed before he continued his investigations.
In preparation for such a contingency, he had brought with him a small electric lamp, and with the aid of this he found his way across the paved yard to a door which opened into the building. This was locked, he discovered to his dismay. There must be another, he thought, and began looking for it. There were windows overlooking the courtyard, but these were so carefully shuttered that it was impossible to tell whether lights shone behind them or not.
He found the other entrance at an angle of two walls, tried it, and to his delight it opened. He was in a short stone corridor and at the farther end was a barred gate. Short of this and to the right was a green door. He turned the handle softly, and as it opened he saw that a brilliant light was burning within. He pushed it farther and stepped into the room.
He was in an office which was unfurnished except for a table and a chair, but it was not the desolate appearance of the apartment which held his eye.
As he had entered a woman, dressed from head to foot in black, was passing to a second room, and at the sound of the door she turned quickly and drew her veil over her face. But she had delayed that action a little too long, and Jim, with a gasp of amazement, had looked upon the face of that “incurable invalid” Mrs. Fane!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked. He saw her hand drop to the fold of her dress, then: “Mr. Steele,” she said as she recognized him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Jim as he closed the door behind him, “but I wanted to see you pretty badly.”
“Sit down, Mr. Steele. Did you see my—” she hesitated, “see my face?”
He nodded gravely.
“And did you recognize me?”
He nodded again.
“Yes, you are Mrs. Fane,” he said quietly.
Slowly her hands rose and she unpinned the veil.
“You may lock the door,” she said; “yes, I am Mrs. Fane.”
He was so bewildered, despite his seeming self-possession, that he had nothing to say.
“You probably think that I have been practising a wicked and mean deception,” she said, “but there are reasons—excellent reasons—why I should not be abroad in the daytime, and why, if I were traced to Featherdale Mansions, I should not be identified with the woman who walks at night.”
“Then it was you who left the key?” he said.
She nodded, and all the time her eyes never left his face.
“I am afraid I cannot enlighten you any farther,” she said, “partly because I am not prepared at this moment to reveal my hand and partly because there is so little that I could reveal if I did.”
And only a few minutes before he had been thinking how jolly it would be if he could lay all his troubles and perplexities before her. It was incredible that he should be talking with her at this midnight hour in a prosaic city office. He looked at the delicate white hand which rested against her breast and smiled, and she, with her quick perceptions, guessed the cause of his amusement.
“You are thinking of the Blue Hand?” she said quickly.
“Yes, I am thinking of the Blue Hand,” said Jim.
“You have an idea that that is just a piece of chicanery and that the hand has no significance?” she asked quietly.
“Curiously enough, I don’t think that,” said Jim. “I believe behind that symbol is a very interesting story, but you must tell it in your own time, Mrs. Fane.”
She paced the room deep in thought, her hands clasped before her, her chin on her breast, and he waited, wondering how this strange discovery would develop.
“You came because you heard from South Africa that I had been making inquiries about the girl—she is not in danger?”
“No,” said Jim with a wry face. “At present I am in danger of having offended her beyond pardon.”
She looked at him sharply, but did not ask for an explanation.
“If you had thought my warnings were theatrical and meaningless, I should not have blamed you,” she said after a while, “but I had to reach her in some way that would impress her.”
“There is something I cannot understand, Mrs. Fane,” said Jim. “Suppose Eunice had told Digby Groat of this warning?”
She smiled.
“He knows,” she said quietly, and Jim remembered the hand on the laboratory door. “No, he is not the person who will understand what it all means,” she said. “As to your Eunice,” her lips parted in a dazzling little smile, “I would not like any harm to come to the child.”
“Have you any special reason for wishing to protect her?” asked Jim.
She shook her head.
“I thought I had a month ago,” she said. “I thought she was somebody whom I was seeking. A chance resemblance,
fleeting and elusive, brought me to her; she was one of the shadows I pursued,” she said with a bitter little smile, “one of the ghosts that led nowhere. She interested me. Her beauty, her fresh innocence and her character have fascinated me, even though she has ceased to be the real object of my search. And you, Mr. Steele. She interests you too?” She eyed him keenly.
“Yes,” said Jim, “she interests me too.”
“Do you love her?”
The question was so unexpected that Jim for once was not prepared with an answer. He was a reticent man ordinarily, and now that the opportunity presented he could not discuss the state of his feelings towards Eunice.
“If you do not really love her,” said the woman, “do not hurt her, Mr. Steele. She is a very young girl, too good to be the passing amusement that Digby Groat intends she shall be.”
“Does he?” said Jim between his teeth.
She nodded.
“There is a great future for you, and I hope that you will not ruin that career by an infatuation which has the appearance at the moment of being love.”
He looked at the flushed and animated face and thought that next to Eunice she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“I am almost at the end of my pursuit,” she went on, “and once we can bring Digby Groat and his mother to book, my work will be done.” She shook her head sadly. “I have no further hope, no further hope,” she said.
“Hope of what?” asked Jim.
“Finding what I sought,” said Mrs. Fane, and her luminous eyes were fixed on his. “But I was mad, I sought that which is beyond recall, and I must use the remaining years of my life for such happiness as God will send to me. Forty-three years of waste!” she threw out her arms with a passionate gesture. “Forty-three years of suffering. A loveless childhood, a loveless marriage, a bitter betrayal. I have lost everything, Mr. Steele, everything. Husband and child and hope.”
Jim started back.
“Good God!” he said, “then you are—”
“I am Lady Mary Danton.” She looked at him strangely. “I thought you had guessed that.”
Lady Mary Danton!
Then his search was ended, thought Jim with dismay. A queer unsatisfactory ending, which brought him no nearer to reward or advancement, both of which were so vitally necessary now.
“You look disappointed,” she said, “and yet you had set yourself out to find Lady Mary.”
He nodded.
“And you have found her. Is she less attractive than you had imagined?”
He did not reply. He could not tell her that his real search had not been for her, but for her dead child.
“Do you know I have been seeing you every day for months, Mr. Steele?” she asked. “I have sat by your side in railway trains, in tube trains, and even stood by your side in tube lifts,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “I have watched you and studied you and I have liked you.”
She said the last words deliberately and her beautiful hand rested for a second on his shoulder.
“Search your heart about Eunice,” she said, “and if you find that you are mistaken in your sentiments, remember that there is a great deal of happiness to be found in this world.” There was no mistaking her meaning.
“I love Eunice,” said Jim quietly, and the hand that rested on his shoulder was withdrawn, “I love her as I shall never love any other woman in life. She is the beginning and end of my dreams.” He did not look up at the woman, but he could hear her quick breathing. Presently she said in a low voice:
“I was afraid so—I was afraid so.” And then Jim, whose moral courage was beyond question, rose and faced her.
“Lady Mary,” he said quietly, “you have abandoned hope that you will ever find your daughter?”
She nodded.
“Suppose Eunice were your daughter? Would you give her to me?” She raised her eyes to his.
“I would give her to you with thankfulness,” she said, “for you are the one man in the world whom I would desire any girl I loved to marry “— she shook her head. “But you, too, are pursuing shadows,” she said. “Eunice is not my daughter—I have traced her parentage and there is no doubt at all upon the matter. She is the daughter of a South African musician.”
“Have you seen the scar on her wrist?” he asked slowly. It was his last hope of identification, and when she shook her head, his heart sank.
“I did not know that she had a scar on her wrist. What kind of a scar is it?” she asked.
“A small round burn the size of a sixpence,” said Jim.
“My baby had no such mark—she had no blemish whatever.”
“Nothing that would have induced some evilly disposed person to remove?”
Lady Mary shook her head.
“Oh, no,” she said faintly. “You are chasing shadows, Mr. Steele, almost as persistently as I have done. Now let me tell you something about myself,” she said, “and I warn you that I am not going to elucidate the mystery of my disappearance—that can wait. This building is mine,” she said. “I am the proprietor of the whole block. My husband bought it and in a moment of unexampled generosity presented it to me the day after its purchase. In fact, it was mine when it was supposed to be his. He was not a generous man,” she said sadly, “but I will not speak of his treatment of me. This property has provided me with an income ample for my needs, and I have, too, a fortune which I inherited from my father. We were desperately poor when I married Mr. Danton,” she explained, “and only a week or two later my father’s cousin, Lord Pethingham, died, and father inherited a very large sum of money, the greater portion of which came to me.”
“Who is Madge Benson?” he demanded.
“Need you ask that?” she said. “She is my servant.”
“Why did she go to prison?”
He saw the woman’s lips close tight.
“You must promise not to ask questions about the past until I am ready to tell you, Mr. Steele,” she said, “and now I think you can see me home.” She looked round the office. “There are usually a dozen cablegrams to be seen and answered. A confidential clerk of mine comes in the morning to attend to the dispatch of wires which I leave for him. I have made myself a nuisance to every town clerk in the world, from Buenos Ayres to Shanghai,” she said with a whimsical laugh in which there was a note of pain. “‘The shadow he pursueth—’ You know the old Biblical lines, Mr. Steele, and I am so tired of my pursuit, so very tired!”
“And is it ended now?” asked Jim.
“Not yet,” said Lady Mary, and suddenly her voice grew hard and determined. “No, we’ve still got a lot of work before us, Jim—” She used the word shyly and laughed like a child when she saw him colour. “Even Eunice will not mind my calling you Jim,” she said, “and it is such a nice name, easily remembered, and it has the advantage of not being a popular nickname for dogs and cats.”
He was dying to ask her why, if she was so well off, she had taken up her residence in a little flat overlooking a railway line, and it was probable that had he asked her, he would have received an unsatisfactory reply.
He took leave of her at her door.
“Good night, neighbour,” he smiled.
“Good night, Jim,” she said softly.
And Jim was still sitting in his big arm-chair pondering the events of the night when the first rays of the rising sun made a golden pattern upon the blind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
EARLY the next morning a district messenger arrived at the flat with a letter from Eunice, and he groaned before he opened it.
She had written it in the hurt of her discovery and there were phrases which made him wince.
“I never dreamt it was you, and after all the pretence you made that this was a woman! It wasn’t fair of you, Jim. To secure a sensation you nearly frightened me to death on my first night here, and made me look ridiculous in order that I might fall into your waiting arms! I see it all now. You do not like Mr. Groat, and were determined that I should leave his
house, and this is the method which you have followed. I shall find it very hard to forgive you and perhaps you had better not see me again until you hear from me.”
“Oh, damn,” said Jim for the fortieth time since he had left her.
What could he do? He wrote half a dozen letters and tore them all up, every one of them into shreds. He could not explain to her how the key came into his possession without betraying Lady Mary Danton’s secret. And now he would find it more difficult than ever to convince her that Digby Groat was an unscrupulous villain. The position was hopeless and he groaned again. Then a thought struck him and he crossed the landing to the next flat.
Madge Benson opened the door and this time regarded him a little more favourably.
“My lady is asleep,” she said. She knew that Jim was aware of Mrs. Fane’s identity.
“Do you think you could wake her? It is rather important.”
“I will see,” said Madge Benson, and disappeared into the bedroom. She returned in a few moments. “Madame is awake. She heard your knock,” she said. “Will you go in?”
Lady Mary was lying on the bed fully dressed, wrapped in a dressing-gown, and she took the letter from Jim’s hand which he handed her without a word, and read.
“Have patience,” she said as she handed it back. “She will understand in time.”
“And in the meanwhile,” said Jim, his heart heavy, “anything can happen to her! This is the very thing I didn’t want to occur.”
“You went to the house. Did you discover anything?”
He shook his head.
“Take no notice and do not worry,” said Lady Mary, settling down in the bed and closing her eyes, “and now please let me sleep, Mr. Steele; I have not been to bed for twenty-four hours.”
Eunice had not dispatched the messenger with the letter to Jim five minutes before she regretted the impulse which had made her write it. She had said bitter things which she did not really feel. It was an escapade of his which ought to be forgiven, because at the back of it, she thought, was his love for her. She had further reason to doubt her wisdom, when, going into Digby Groat’s library she found him studying a large photograph.
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