gasped, utterly amazed.
"Yes. We mustn't lose sight of him this time. He can tell us somethingif he likes," and without further word he dashed away after the man whohad hurried to catch his train, leaving me standing alone in amazement.
That man who had brushed past I had instantly recognised as none otherthan Henry Blain, who for so many weeks was supposed to have been inParis.
This fresh development was certainly both startling and mysterious.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
A VISIT FROM BOYD.
Without a second's hesitation I rushed up the steps after Boyd, but ongaining the platform found that a train had just gone out, and was atthat moment disappearing across the bridge over the Thames. Thedetective, known to the ticket-collector as a police-officer, had beenallowed to pass the barrier, and had evidently caught the same train asBlain.
There was certainly an element of deepest mystery in the fact that theunknown man who had kept the appointment in St. James's Park, and hadafterwards taken such elaborate precautions against being followed,should be revealed to be none other than the once purse-proud proprietorof Shenley. Quite apparent it was, too, that the object of Eva's visitto the park was to meet him clandestinely, for what reason was aprofound enigma. The more I revolved the strange events within my mind,the more absolutely bewildering they become.
True, I had made certain discoveries--discoveries which, rather thantending to throw light on the real author of the crime or its motive,only, however, increased the enigma and enveloped the woman whom I hadgrown to love so fondly in an impenetrable veil of suspicion.
Thoughts such as these filled my mind as, turning from the station indespair, I went back into the dust and turmoil of Fleet Street, crowdedat that hour by tired thousands hurrying homeward. I loved Eva. Eventhough every proof I had obtained pointed to her complicity in thedastardly affair, she was still my idol. I thought daily, hourly, onlyof her, refusing always to suspect her, and endeavouring to convincemyself that the truths I had elicited had no foundation in fact.
Love is blind. When a man loves a woman as I loved Eva Glaslyn at thatmoment, nothing can turn aside his passion. I verily believe that if atthat hour I had stood by and seen her in the dock at the Old Bailey,condemned as a murderess, my affection for her would have been none theless. I lived for her alone. She was all that was dearest in the worldto me. Mary Blain had, no doubt, noticed my infatuation, yet she hadsaid nothing, she herself being, I believed, in love with Dick. Atleast I could congratulate myself that we had mutually agreed to allowthe past to fade from our remembrance.
Nevertheless, when I thought of Eva, and told myself how passionate wasmy affection and how ardent my feelings towards her, the ogre ofsuspicion would sometimes arise and cause me to pause in my ecstaticdreamings. Had she not stiffened strangely, and refused to reciprocatemy love? Had she not point-blank told me that we could never be morethan friends? Had she not, indeed, herself hinted at her own guilt inthat strange sentence which had fallen from her lips?
As I passed up Fleet Street that evening, jostling with the crowd, Ithought of these things, and was plunged into gloom and uncertainty.The statement of old Lowry was one of which I felt in duty bound toobtain proof. Yet how? He had declared that a woman exactly resemblingher had purchased a certain drug which could be required for one purposealone, while a secret attempt had been made to take my life--by whom Iknew not. Sometimes, in moments of despair, I entertained deepsuspicions of her, but always I found my love in the ascendancy, andended by refusing to believe the evidence which I had so diligently andpatiently collected.
For months Scotland Yard had had the matter in hand, but discoveringnothing, had allowed it to drop. Of course, in face of the statementmade by the landlord of the house in Phillimore Place, Boyd was everanxious to question Mrs. Blain, but had wisely left this to me. And howhad I succeeded? Only in making discoveries which, although startlingin themselves, increased the mystery rather than solved it.
Even at that moment the identity of the victims remained still unknown.They were lying in nameless graves in Abney Park Cemetery, having beenburied by the parish. The Blains alone could give us information as towho they were and who was the unnamed scientist whose discovery was nowcreating such a stir throughout Europe. Curious it was that he did notcome forward and claim the discovery as his own, for he must have readaccounts of it in the papers. My own theory in this matter was that hewas unable to communicate with the Royal Institution for one simplereason, namely, that he was dead--that he was the man whom we foundlying lifeless with that strange mascot, the penny wrapped in paper, inhis pocket.
I walked along to Wellington Street, where I called in to see my friendCrutchley, one of the sub-editors of the _Morning Post_, who had justcome on duty and was preparing for his night's work. In the offices ofthe morning papers activity begins when tired London takes her ease, fortheir night is as day, until at dawn the staff, weary after hours ofwork by electric light in stifling rooms, go forth chilled and jaded totheir homes to sleep while the world works. For half an hour I sat inhis den, where the table was already piled with telegrams and flimsy,while he, with coat off, shirt-cuffs turned up, and a cigarette in hismouth, sighed, sharpened his big blue pencil, and, as he chatted,commenced to "slaughter" wordy descriptions by too eloquent reporters.The world wants news, not "gas," is the motto of every workingsub-editor. The public prefer facts without "padding," and to cut outthe latter is the duty of the man who, from the sub-editorial chair,decides upon what shall appear and what shall be omitted, a duty whichrequires the greatest care and judgment. When I left him I recollectedthat Dick had gone to some place down in Essex for the _Comet_, andwould not return to eat the diurnal steak in company. Therefore Iwandered aimlessly along the Strand, and turned into a restaurant,afterwards spending the evening at the theatre.
Nearly three weeks went by and I heard nothing of Boyd, although I hadwritten to him. At nearly ten o'clock one night, however, when I hadreturned to Grey's Inn alone, I found the detective standing in thehalf-light against the mantelpiece.
"Bad luck the other night," he said, after we had exchanged greetings.
"What, didn't you follow him?" I cried, surprised.
"No, that's the devil of it," he exclaimed in a tone of bitterdisappointment, sinking into a chair. "You'll remember that thatplatform at Ludgate Hill is an island one, and just as I got through thebarrier a train on the other side was moving off to Snow Hill andMoorgate Street, while one to Blackheath was just on the point ofstarting in the opposite direction. I, of course, jumped into thelatter, feeling sure he'd be going out of town."
"And you found out your mistake too late?"
"I examined all the carriages at Loughborough Junction, but there was nosign of him. He evidently took the other train."
"Unfortunate," I answered, then sat for a few moments in calmreflection.
"Unfortunate!" he echoed. "It's more than that. We seem foredoomed tofailure in this affair. I've had three men on the job ever since, butwith no result. Even the `narks' know nothing. But," he added, "when Ipointed him out you seemed to know him. Am I right?"
I hesitated, wondering whether to tell him all the facts as I knew themand obtain his assistance in my further inquiries. It struck me thathe, a professional investigator of crime, shrewd, clear-headed andacquainted with all the methods and subterfuges of evil-doers, mightsuggest some other means which had not occurred to me. I had hithertobeen deterred from making any explanation of my discoveries andsuspicions on account of my strong love for Eva, but now the idea tookpossession of me that if I explained the whole to Boyd and told him ofmy deep affection for her, we might work together, and perhaps at lengthobtain some solution of this most intricate of problems. I was sickwith the giddiness of one who falls from some great height. I had lostmy hold upon the dreams and hopes of life.
"You're quite right, Boyd," I said, handing him the cigarettes. "I knowthat man."
"Who is h
e? He looks rather gentlemanly. That shabby get-up of his wasa fake, I'm sure."
"Yes," I responded. "He's a man pretty well-to-do. His name is Blain,and he is the husband of Mrs. Blain, whom, you recollect, is supposed tohave taken the house in Phillimore Place."
The detective gave vent to an unwritable exclamation.
"Blain!" he echoed, his face betraying a look of amazement, and pausingwith a lighted vesta in his hand. "Well, that's indeed a facer!" Thenhe added: "He must, in that case, know something of the matter as wellas his wife."
At that moment there was a tap at the door of the sitting-room, and oldMrs. Joad entered with a letter which, she said, had come by the lastpost and she had forgotten to give it to me.
By the writing I saw it was from Eva, and